


Shelter As We Go

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: ... and Jon Finds Her, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Sansa Stark, F/M, Jonsa Gone Wild Edition™, Land of Always Winter, Post-S5/ADWD, Protective Jon, Sansa Escapes Beyond the Wall, Sexual Content, Shieldmaiden Sansa, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Wildling Jon Snow, i.e.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 65,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22259449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: “I was afraid.” Her ribs expand in his palm as she takes a breath. “But I am not afraid now, Jon.” Tilt of her head as he sinks his mouth to chase away the heat of his fingers from her neck. “I am here with you.”Lips resting on her skin as he breathes the scent of her. “You are here with me.” Low and soft, voice curling from his throat like a fire burned down to embers. “Wherever we may go, you are always here with me.”A wildling scout finds a fire-haired stranger in the snow — but within each other they find something else entirely.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 1199
Kudos: 1125





	1. Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simonetta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simonetta/gifts).



> > a gift for simonetta. I read the first chapter of her amazing work _Nothing Burns Like The Cold_ back in December and fell in love with the idea of Mance raising Jon Snow. It feels only right to gift my little take on that trope to you, my honey — I hope you don’t mind! 🌻

He’s out scouting when he sees them: footprints in the snow.

Not the heavy press of winter boots. Something dainty, light. Barest trace of a wraith passing beneath the shadows of the night. Wolf at his heels, he follows their tread. Finds her at the river-bend.

Sight to see, even in her ragged skirts, half-torn cloak. Damp colours: blues, greys, whites, but there — just _there_ — a streak of fire warming up the frozen air. Drops to a knee beside her, skates his fingertips over that fire-streak of hair framing her moonstone face.

“Lost,” he says. “Little girl lost.”

She stares at him as if it is a question. Distant tide-lines pulling up across her brow as she takes him in, eyes like sunlit sea. Parts her lips. Asks a question of her own. _Water_. Husk buried deep in her throat.

“Plenty.” Tilts a brow toward the snow dappling his knee. “All around. Put a handful to your mouth, suck it up… get all the water you need.” Wolf nosing at his side. “Lost girl used to wineskins, hmm? Silver cups.” Pushes the wolf away. “Where is your village?”

“Gone,” she says. “Burned. Black towers. Boys on the gates instead of banners.”

“Boys?”

“Dead. All dead. He told me about them on our wedding night.” A shiver runs through her, rattles her teeth. “Tar and yarn, little silver wolves pinning their cloaks… ash now. He took their bodies down, burned them, threw them to the wind.” Eyes rising: flames in them to match the colour of her hair. “Should have put them in the crypts. That’s where they belong.”

Shifts on his knee. “Your family?”

“My _brothers_.”

Flat of a fire-warmed axe to a wound, the way she hisses it. Speaking of the dead — but the pain of it all is alive on her tongue. He shifts on his knee again, then rises from the ground. Fingers on her arm. Pulls her up with a touch more strength than needed; she is light as a feather, as like to blow away in the wind as her brothers. Sways on her feet, opens her mouth to speak. He shakes his head. Once.

“Quiet now,” he rumbles. “Time to walk.”

*

Stops further down the river to let her drink. Wolf splashes in beside her, water thickening his bone-white coat. Shakes it off. Surprises him that she doesn’t squeal or skit away. Watches from the riverbank as she sinks her fingers into the thick white fur instead; closes her eyes as she strokes a palm between pricked ears. The white wolf allows it, leans into her touch — that surprises him, too.

Doesn’t show it. Just waits on his riverbank, eyes knitted up at the skies reading the clouds as they sway and shrink. Storm coming — _soon_ — he’s sure of it. Gives a grumble. Wolf and wraith looking up at him from their place in the water. Bone-white coat and fire-streak hair turning as one to clamber back up beside him.

They walk in silence. Sound of their feet carrying up the quiet air between them. Wolf disappearing into the trees up ahead. Black-knife shadows as the sun sinks slowly behind the hills. Scurry of footsteps as she quickens her pace.

“Where are we going?”

Doesn’t look back at her. “North.”

“Is it… f-f-far?”

Feels the shiver rattling her teeth like a breath of wind on his skin. “Few more miles.” Looks down at his feet as he cuts through the snow. “There’ll be a fire. Food.” Pats the hare hanging from his belt. “Few more miles — then a fire. Hmm?”

Glances back over his shoulder in time to see her nod. Once. Then she burrows back down into her shoulders; presses her dainty footprints into the snow. He counts each step — his, _hers_ — frowns as his heartbeat slows to match their rhythm.

*

Carries her once or twice. Gullies and flutes of flowing water; sets her down where she won’t get her feet wet. Not tenderness or care that makes him do it — only that she’s shivering madly and he wants to be home by nightfall. Spots the cookfires as they crest another hill. Gives a whistle: wolf comes bounding out the trees to meet them.

Strides ahead, slithers down a path of loose shingle, snow-flecked stones. Stops at the silence echoing behind him: no footsteps sinking soft to match his heartbeat. Turns to find her swaying at the crest of the hilltop. Damp colours: blues, greys, whites — red hair silver-washed by the early moon. Starts back up toward her.

“Fire. Food.” Jerks a thumb up backward over his shoulder. “You see? Just there.”

Hears her breath: shallow, soft. “Who… who sits at the fire?”

“Free folk.”

“Like you?”

“Like me.”

Measured, the nod she makes now. Chapped lips drawn tight together like a rosebud: red, lush, waiting for a thumb to unfurl them in the springtime — petal by petal. Catches hold of his thoughts. Shakes them free. Wintertime. Winter-lands. No time to think of roses, redness, however sweet. Fire, that is what he needs — her, too.

Makes a sound low in his throat. Beckons to her. Another measured nod, those sea-blue eyes sweeping down over the hill. Then she takes a step, falls back into the rhythm his heart brackets between the crooks of his ribs. Breath billowing soft through his teeth — hadn’t realised he was holding it.

*

Orell is the first to spot them. Eagle wheeling overhead; high shriek that rakes up the sky. Arm outstretched, waiting patiently till the bird lands. Strokes its feathers with a blunt-fingered hand, curses softly as its talons flex and shred at fur and flesh. It shrieks again once it sees the wolf — louder still at the man who walks beside it.

“Jon’s got himself a pretty catch,” says the skinchanger to his eagle; looks up at Jon, eyes turning a little colder now. “Is she for supper?”

“Found her in the snow,” he says evenly. Pats his belt. “Found supper in the snow, too.” Snarls his lip as the eagle shrieks at him again. “Bloody bird. I’ll wear the scars he gave me gladly — but that screaming might make me set my wolf on him before the night is out.” Brown teeth now as Orell bares them in a smile. “First watch?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll save you some rabbit.”

The skinchanger gives a soft little grunt in thanks. Steps aside to let them pass; brown smile widening as the girl flinches from the shrieking bird. Wolf slides in between them, silent snarl echoing the one on Jon’s lips. Eagle soon stops screaming, ducks back behind its feathers. Hadn’t realised her fingers were gripping at his arm till he feels the loss of them — knife in his side: pure, quick anger that he even notices it. Shakes his head. Walks on.

*

Lips drawn back together as he leads her into the camp. Like a rosebud again: red, lush, waiting for a thumb to unfurl them in the springtime — petal by petal. But it is not springtime. However sweet that little red rose may seem, it does not hide the truth: the fragile stem that sways behind it. Holds his breath to see her shiver.

No time for weakness in the winter-lands; still, the women warm to her. Take hot bricks from the cookfires, lay them at her feet, press them to her fingertips. One ducks into a sealskin tent, comes back with a thick fur to heap across her shoulders. Slowly, a fire-prickle rises against the moonstone of her cheek; soon, the chatter of her teeth stills to silence. Lets out his breath: one long, loose billow burning smoke on the cold air.

He leaves the men to their game of knucklebones, squats in the patch of snow before her. Elbows on his thighs, fingers stirring the air between them like oaks in the wind. For half a heartbeat, she meets his gaze.

Sea-ice, the way the firelight catches at her eyes; shimmering, skittish — _sinking_ as she lets them drop, nudges at a snow-covered stone with the tip of her boot. Wants to reach out a hand, turn her chin in his palm, trick those sea-ice eyes back up to hook on his own. Wonders why he wants it.

“Warmer now?”

No need to ask it, can _see_ — flush of heat in her cheeks, fingers rosy against the fire-warmed rocks — that she is. She nods, flexes the grip she keeps on the stones in her lap. Dainty little hands, pale as the moon. He looks at them, wonders at what they would feel like woven between his weather-worn palms. Wonders why he wonders it. Clears his throat.

“First light,” he says gruffly. “We go north again.”

Turns the stone beneath her boot, over and over. “What lies north?”

“Mountains.” Clicks his tongue against his teeth. “More free folk.”

“Your people?” she asks.

“Aye,” he says as the stone stops turning. “Where are yours?”

“I told you.” She lifts her eyes: sea-ice beneath the fire-blush of her brows. “Dead. Burned. Bits of bone buried far from home.”

Like apple-seeds, the way she spits the words between her teeth. He rocks a little on his haunches, hums beneath his breath. The men stare down at their knucklebones; the women watch him from where they sit sharpening their knives before the fire. He looks from her to them and back again.

Slender, soft, moon-pale as the dainty hands she clasps so tightly in her lap; but there is a strength to the edges of her face, the pale beauty of her jaw, the clear light in her cool eyes. He decides then.

“You’ll come with us.”

She blinks: once, twice. “To the mountains?”

“Aye,” he says. “If you wish it.”

She says nothing, only nods: once, twice. Sea-ice bobbing on the water, the way her eyes stay fixed on his. Drowns in them for a moment — then he pushes up from the ground with a grunt, finds his own place beside the fire. Keeps his back to her, gazes at the flames. Wolf ambles up to her side. Stays there as the night turns clear and cold. Eyes on the fire still — but he feels the warm weave of her fingers through the bone-white fur.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope whoever is here found at least a _semblance_ of enjoyment in the words above. Picset [here](https://charmtion.tumblr.com/post/190260623521/shelter-as-we-go-a-wildling-scout-finds-a). Next chapter soon… ❤️


	2. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Thinks what some would have him do. Leave her here: a bolt of blanket beneath her, a cup of half-melted snow beside her. Wintertime. Winter-lands. No time for weakness. Thinks it even as he stoops down to heft her over his shoulder.’
>
>> Relieved there is some interest in both the idea and the first chapter! I am just in love with this wildling world busy being woven; and am **so** enjoying finding Sansa’s place within it — so thank you very much for indulging me, honeys. 😍

Fever rises with the sun. Watches it crest her brow as pale, wintry light pools across the hills. She moans softly in her bed of furs and sealskins, lifts a hand to shade her eyes as she blinks them open. Whimper on her tongue to see him hulking here: some shadow shot through with sunlight standing over her. But she doesn’t scream — takes the cup carved of bone he offers her.

“Drink.”

She does. One long slide of water down her throat. Gulps it. Makes him frown, that. Knit at his lip with his teeth. Takes the half-drained cup from her, tosses the water into the snow. Sea-ice tearing at his soul; but he only shakes his head.

“No more,” he rumbles. “It’ll make you sick.”

Bruises of fire in her cheeks: red as her hair. Colour drains away as the sun crests the sky. Soon, she is back to shivering. Damp colours: blues, greys, whites — red of her hair dark as blood around her pale face.

Fire is out. Sealskin tents rolled up. Men make ready to move even as she looks ready to die. Thinks what some would have him do. Leave her here: a bolt of blanket beneath her, a cup of half-melted snow beside her. Wintertime. Winter-lands. No time for weakness. Thinks it even as he stoops down to heft her over his shoulder.

*

“Dead weight,” one of the men says a little after sunrise.

He hits him. Only a jot of strength behind it; the lad tumbles from his garron even so, spits a curse through a mouthful of snow — blanches as a tooth flies out with it. Helps him up, lifts a dark brow as if to warn him to make another comment, craft another curse. Stony silence. Jon laughs then — a quiet, rough sound — and Sten gives a grin that bandies against the tightness of his eyes. They turn back to toe at their stirrups. Soon, laughter fades down to nothing.

Sits his horse, broods as is his way. _Dead weight_ , half the men are thinking it. Wrapped in her frayed winter cloak and half a hundred furs, still she sways so dainty in the saddle. So light the wind could break her. He squints at the sky, glowers at the storm-clouds darkening its seams. Wonders at what he’ll do if they break.

*

Half a day of hard riding. The first storm-cloud spreads like ink into the air. A clap of thunder sees it break and burst, scattering snowflakes and freezing rain that lasts till sunset. The sky turns from white to grey to black; wolves howl in the hills, the dogs bay back till he shouts for them to be silent.

They find somewhere to shelter by the scattered light of the stars. She stays swaying in her saddle. When he slips an arm around her waist to help her dismount, she falls against him like a sapling uprooted by a storm.

 _Dead weight_ , they whisper it all night as he covers her in furs, sets fire-warmed rocks at her feet, her hips, the small of her back. _Dead weight_ , as he lays the back of his hand to her brow, feels a white-hot pulse beneath the moonstone skin. Val brings over a bone-cup of broth, lifts it to the girl’s pale lips, meets Jon’s eyes. _Dead weight_ , her flint gaze says, a little kindlier than the others.

“Take them back to Mance.” Fingertips against the jewel-bright shades of her: moonstone skin, ruby strands of hair. “Fever’ll break. Day or two. I’ll follow then.”

Val nods, then ducks her chin toward the sleeping girl. “Why?”

“She will live — I feel it in my bones.”

Looks down, lifts the cup away. “What does it matter if she lives or dies?”

“It matters,” he says softly. “That’s all I know.”

Shifts to throw the broth into the fire. “Mance will want to know what keeps you from the mountains. He’ll ask why I ride in your place.” Val straightens her shoulders, brows quirking. “He’ll laugh in my face when I tell him you’re too busy nursing a half-dead girl in a cave to have ridden home with us.”

“Let him laugh,” he says with a shrug. “Just take them home, hmm? Leave me to my cave.”

“Why?” she asks again.

“Kissed by fire.” He touches a ruby strand fleetingly. “She’s lucky — and she will live.”

*

He is not so sure of it as he keeps watch through the night. Once or twice the shallow sound of her breathing stutters to silence. She lies there like some warrior laid out for burial: bound rigid by furs and blankets, shoulders square, jaw hard. He keeps away; but bids the wolf lay down beside her. Brush of bone-white fur to her fingers sets her breathing soft and slow again.

Fever dreams hit as the others ride out of camp come the morn. The shouts of men, the sound of hoof on stone, the snuffle of the hounds; each makes her breath fall a little faster. She makes no cry, no plea — but there are shapes on her lips, tremors on her tongue. He does not try to pick them out. No doubt she calls for the ashes of her brothers.

Scrapes some snow from the cave’s mouth. Melts it in a cup held between his hands. Props down on a knee beside her as he bathes her brow. Wrings out the rag he uses, watches as a water-drop catches on the fire-blush of her lashes. Trickles down her cheek as if she is crying. The sight is more than he can bear. Thumb to her skin, he catches up the tear; wipes it away, wonders why even as he does it.

Leans back against the damp stone wall of the cave, creaks his hand into a fist. Flicker of a frown as his knuckles smart: brush-bruised from knocking out Sten’s tooth. Wonders why he hit him. For saying aloud what the others were thinking? For questioning him, doubting his decisions? Wishes it were as simple as that. But it’s something else. Something deeper. Something he doesn’t yet understand.

Quiet little moan as she stirs on her makeshift bed. The sound shivers right through him: another bit of _something_ he doesn’t yet understand. Stranger in the snow — yet he has left behind his brothers to tend to her. _Dead weight_ — yet every fibre of his being, every knot of bone and beat of blood feels bound to the knowledge that she will live — that she _must_ live.

Doesn’t understand it; but he doesn’t fight it, either. Bends to that knowledge. Bathes her brow. Spoons her broth. Makes the wolf sleep close beside her. Sits against his cave-wall, broods as is his way. When the fever dreams come again, he wishes Mance were here to play his lute. Can only hum a little beneath his breath instead, hope it’ll soothe her back to a dreamless sleep.

*

Can’t help but study her as she sleeps. Her skin reminds him of half a hundred things. The thin, gold-edged paper that makes up the books Mance hoards in his tent. The sheen of sunlight on an ice-lake. The shimmer of glass in the windows of the strange, stone houses in the south. Even bright-cheeked with fever, she shines like some fine, rare jewel.

Wonders if he’ll tell her so one day. Wonders why he even wonders it. Stranger in the snow, that is what she is. He’ll see her well and set her free. Back to her burned-out village; back to the boy-banners on its gates. He will — he _won’t_ — he will. Petals on a stem, the way he plucks from one thought to another. Finds a stick to carve. Keeps his fingers busy even as his mind wanders.

The wolf comes back from hunting as the ink is beginning to lift from the sky. He takes the rabbit from his jaws, throws him his half. Builds up the fire. Sets the rabbit roasting over it, pokes it with the tip of his knife every now and then. Thick fur brushing up against his knee as the wolf lays down to sleep. He smiles, strokes a hand through the bone-white coat, keeps his eyes on the fire.

Behind him, she shifts in her sleep. Gentle little sound low in her throat: brook burbling over river-smooth stones. Smile shivers on his lips; but it does not fall away.

Closes his eyes a moment, listens to the soft sounds of the cave.

Hiss of cooking meat. Wolfsong somewhere deep in the hills. Crackle of a bough as it tumbles from its perch in the cookfire. Her breath: soft, slow — steady as his heartbeat.

Opens his eyes. Faces in the flames. Question skating up with the smoke.

_What does it matter if she lives or dies?_

“It matters,” he says softly to the stillness of the night. “That’s all I know.”

* * *


	3. Rainwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Lost girl moaning in her sealskin bed. A low, soft little sound as her cry ebbs out to echoes. Teeth chattering. Strand of fire-streak hair sticking to her sweat-damp brow. Hands clasped over her chest: fingers curving like claws. Like a wolf.’

Days pass.

_One, two, three_ …

The sun rises and crests the sky then dips beneath the hills.

_Four, five_ …

Clouds gather at the horizon, burst into a storm that makes the cave drip and whistle its own haunting water-song. He gathers some of it in his palms, lifts them to his lips. Sucks out a drink that tastes sweeter than the snow dusting the rocks at the cave’s mouth. Sinks back on his haunches to glance across at her.

_Six_.

She stirred a little the first day, dry lips parting with a creak. Thanked him for the cave-water he pooled in his palms for her. Tipped it into a bone-cup, slid between her teeth. Grew stronger day by day as the fever brewed and broke.

Now, she sits in the bed he made her: sealskins to keep the damp floor from seeping its chill into her bones, a bearskin white as the snow without, a fox-pelt bundled up where she lays her head to sleep at night. Takes the cup he proffers. Drains it in a long swallow. Looks at him, one fire-blush brow slightly raised.

“Rainwater,” he says, waves a hand to the storm pressing its ink into the sky.

Looks at where his fingers beckon as she wipes a drop from her chin. “Sweeter than snow.”

Makes a noise to nod his agreement — _hmm_ — finds his eyes are lingering on the waterdrop at the corner of her mouth. Wonders at the taste of it. _Sweeter than snow_. The waterdrop — her lips. Each sweeter than the other. Turns his eyes to the flames then, stares at the white-hot heart of the cookfire till the hunger burns its way out of his blood.

Doesn’t look at her again till he is sure she is asleep.

*

Sleeps a little himself. Half-slumped against damp stone, chin on his chest. Fingers frozen gripping at the knife in his lap. Sharp noise wakes him. Balanced on his boots before he has even blinked open his eyes. Dagger pointed at the cave-mouth; but he turns as that noise rakes up the night again — finds himself pointing his knife back toward the fire instead.

It’s her. Lost girl moaning in her sealskin bed. A low, soft little sound as her cry ebbs out to echoes. Teeth chattering. Strand of fire-streak hair sticking to her sweat-damp brow. Hands clasped over her chest: fingers curving like claws. Like a wolf. Tilts his head to consider it. Yes, a wolf. Wolf fighting off some foe: fox, shadowcat — pack of hounds. Cord of a tendon straining in her throat; can feel the fury in her blood. Feels his skin prick with some shared sense of it.

Moves closer. Quiet on his feet, picks up a bone-cup of broth from the pot above the cookfire. Kneels beside her. _Dead weight_. Not her — all that she bears. Ashes of her brothers. Blackened towers. Burnt-out husk of home. Whatever bastard haunts her dreams. Thinks on it as he swirls the broth round and round the bone-cup. _Dead weight_. But not her — _not her_ — she will live.

Waits patiently till she wakes. Tilts the bone-cup toward her. She takes it, blue eyes wide on his. Fingers brushing his wrist. Furrow in her brow, words trembling on her tongue. He shakes his head. Once.

“Quiet now,” he rumbles. “Time to eat.”

*

Brighter come the morn. Slice of sunlight breaking through the cloud. Throws its shadows across the cave-wall; pool of gold making her skin shimmer till she screws her eyes tighter-shut and then blinks awake. Sits up slowly. He watches from his perch at the cave-mouth, blade of his knife running smooth shreds off the stick he’s whittling.

She looks around. Frowns. “Where is — ”

“The wolf?”

Nods, fingers flexing at the furs across her hips. “Yes.”

“Hunting.” Blows the wood-dust off the stick. “Rabbit. Deer. Something for the pot.” Slips his knife back through his belt. “Normally goes off at night — but he’s taken a liking to sitting over you till dawn.” Squints down the stick, checks its straightness. “Doesn’t like it so much when you dream, though.”

Fingers tightening on the furs. “I don’t dream.”

“You do.” Half a shrug as he fishes out a flint from his pack. “You fight and claw fierce as the wolf at your side whilst you sleep.” Binds it to the stick; sinews twined round and round in a quick, practised pattern. “Something haunts you. Turns you wild. Makes you cry and shriek like Orell’s eagle. A man, might be. Memories — those, too.”

Gold-glimmer to her skin, pain in the sea-ice of her eyes. “Nothing haunts me.”

Doesn’t press it. Gives half a shrug again, smooths a thumb over the sinew-notches he has bound. Shifts to a knee then leans toward her. Flicker of a frown to see her flinch a little as he moves. Meets her eyes — sheen of sunlit water — holds them steady with his own. Sets the flint-knife down on the stone beside her hip. Nods at it.

“Can’t kill the ghosts that haunt you,” he says evenly. “But it can skin a rabbit. Stay in your hand whilst the sky is dark.” Little quiver of a smile on her lips as he shrugs again. “Keep you safe until the dawn — from men and memories, both.”

She says nothing, only nods: once, twice. Sea-ice bobbing on a sheen of sunlit water, the way her eyes stay fixed on his. Drowns in them a moment — then he looks off over his shoulder to where the white wolf waits, dead rabbit in his jaws at the mouth of the cave. Gives a soft smile. Beckons him in.

*

He shows her how to skin the rabbit. Should be a quick thing: cut to the base of its neck, one long drag toward its tail. But the day is beginning to darken by the time she is finished. Hefts it up to show him, timid smile shimmering like sunlight across her cheeks. Fingertips to match her hair: blood-red.

Later, he watches in quiet wonder as she presses them to the damp stone walls of the cave. Makes shapes more solid than the shadows cast by the fire. Fingerprint figures. Drags out features with her thumbs: eyes, noses, lips. Wolf skulking beside the people; head tipped back, howling at the grey-stone night.

“It’s good,” he says.

Hums beneath her breath. “More used to stitches than stone.” Traces a fingertip across a lonely figure. “Scarlet thread… not blood.” Leans toward the solitary shape she is tracing. “Septa Mordane would turn in her grave to see _this_ — and hear someone call it good.”

“That you, hmm?” he asks, pointing at the lonely figure. “Proper southron girl stitching in a lonely tower.”

Dry sound in her throat: laughter, maybe. “Used to be.”

“Could be again.” Shifts as he pokes at the rabbit on the spit. “If you wish it.”

“I don’t wish to be that girl ever again.”

Sound in her throat lower now. Not laughter. Tears: quiet, muffled, melting away as she puts the back of her hand to her lips. He says nothing — only looks at the wolf. Ruby eyes, bone-white coat. Soon, her fingers are sunk back into it; slowly, her crying stops.

*

They eat quietly. She uses the knife he made her to cut her meat. Feels something warm in his chest at the sight of it. Spreads slow, sweet — till his heart feels half-made of honey. Frowns away the feeling; because he doesn’t yet understand it. Tuts instead as she feeds the wolf a long strip of crisped-up rabbit.

“He’s had his share.”

She lets the wolf lick at her fingers. “You said he watches over me as I sleep.” Her voice is softer now: storm of tears long since shaken from it. “Seems to me that’s worth a few bits of rabbit.”

“Fat, spoiled wolf is no good to anyone.”

Rumbles it; but he lets it be. Because she is softer now in the firelight, something like a smile on her moonstone cheeks as the wolf lets her rub a thumb between his ears. No tears in her eyes, no strange sound ebbing up her throat. Humming beneath her breath, quick fingers tearing up a rabbit-leg; wolf takes the shreds from her fingertips gently, ruby eyes closing in a swallow.

He builds the fire up as night draws in. Carries in the pot from beneath one of the cave-flutes. She is in her bed of sealskins as he ducks back in beside the fire. Wolf stretched at her side: a snowy mountain-range between her and the night. Fingers in bone-white fur; but she looks up as he steps closer, brow lifted at the pot he carries.

“Rainwater,” he says. “For your hands.”

Follows his gaze. Dried blood on her fingertips, still. Dark as the shadowy figures sketched on the stone behind her bed. Looks into her eyes as she shuffles deeper into her furs — then looks to where her hands lay. One leaving rust-streaks in the wolf’s bone-white coat. Other laid across her lap: red fingertips gripping the knife he made her tightly. Meets her eyes again now, understands even before she says it.

“Bit of blood might help keep the ghosts away.”

He says nothing. Only nods. Takes the rainwater away. Watches through the fireflame as she hums herself to sleep: wolf at her side, dagger in her lap — rune-marks of a rabbit’s blood some prayer to the old gods to keep those who haunt her far away from her dreams.

Leans back against the damp stone wall, takes up the tune when she falls into the soft breath of sleep; a low, little hum smoking in the depths of his throat. Quiet prayer of his own, might be. Feels it flow across his heart like the rune-marks on her skin: red-warm as the fire of her hair — the glow that settles deep between the crooks of his ribs as he joins the gods to guard her dreams.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firelit cave. Fever-dreams. First bit of fragile understanding (+ proper _conversation_!!) forged between wildling and runaway wife. Flint-knife inspo [here](https://www.missiondelrey.com/product_images/uploaded_images/knife-18-sized.jpg). Dearly hope whoever is reading this is enjoying the journey just as much as me. ❤️


	4. North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “We’ll find shelter as we go.” Half a shrug to match his smile. “Furs on the ground. Stars up above. Don’t need much else. You’ll see.” Holds out his hand to her; half a breath before she takes it. “Lost girl, you will _see_.”

First flash of spirit in her when he tells her they’re to leave the cave.

Blood-blaze in her cheeks, same colour as her hair. Watches him from her stone-carved nook as he gathers up furs and skins, pots and pans. Most he’s heard her speak; no shiver in her voice now. He doesn’t say anything. Just bows and sweeps up things from the cave-floor like a bird plucking seeds from the long grasses in springtime. Feels her watching him, though; fire in her voice to match that of her hair.

“I’m still _sick_.”

Shakes his head, eyes on the ground. “You’re well enough.”

“It’s too _soon_.”

“Not soon enough,” he says with half a smile. “Mance’ll be angry it took this long for me to find my way home.”

“But — but where will we _sleep_?” 

Turns at that. Meets her gaze: sea-ice above the fire-bruises staining her cheeks. She has her chin held high; but he sees the tremble in her jaw. The way her fingers flex like an unfolding tide on the edges of her cloak. Sanctuary, what the cave has been for her. For him, too. Frowns at that. Shakes his head. Once.

“We’ll find shelter as we go.” Half a shrug to match his smile. “Furs on the ground. Stars up above. Don’t need much else. You’ll see.” Holds out his hand to her; half a breath before she takes it. “Lost girl, you will _see_.”

*

Weather is kind. They ride out from the thatch of trees beneath a clear sky. She turns to look over her shoulder mournfully; doesn’t face forward till the cave is a brush of dark ink amongst leafless boughs, snow-slashed hillsides. He lets her look. Lets her mourn for it. Sanctuary, true. Shelter. Stone walls covered in fingerprint figures: sun, moon, stars — a man, a girl, a wolf. Maybe he mourns for it a bit, too.

Sits his saddle, broods as is his way. Thinks of the days ahead: hoofprints cutting up the snow, wolf bounding out from the trees, mountains rising up like some sweet, dark song on the horizon. Thinks of the nights, too. Furs on the ground. Stars up above. _Shelter as we go_. Strange, the glow of warmth that settles in his chest at the thought of it. Shakes his head to free such thoughts; clicks his tongue against his teeth.

Horses lumber along a little faster. Sweep of river to the west of them, sheen of sunlight turning it to silver. Ice-prickles skating his cheeks as the wind whips up a little, ruffles through the garron’s mane. Finds himself pressing on faster. Snow flying up from blunt-edged hooves; sound of laughter on the air. Surprises him, that. Looks across to her. Finds her facing forward, smiling even as the cave fades from sight.

*

Laughter fades after a time, too. Smile stays, though — just about. Grows a little as the horses stoop to sup on riverwater come noonday. Watches her run her fingers through the shaggy fur at the garron’s withers; twist a grip into the ash-dark mane. He sits his saddle, lets his horse drink its fill. Sunlight on the water — on her smile, too.

They climb their way up onto the riverbank, press north again. Miles seem to make her talk. Gentle little chit-chat at first; questions about the route they ride. How far north. What those mountains are. Which woods the wolves hunt in. How it is that a forest can bloom in the snow. Grumbles to begin with; soon finds the words spilling out of him like sun-warmed honey. Wonder in her eyes, smile a whisper on her cheeks.

Sun dips a little as they pull up in a glade midway through a thicket of ash and elm and ironwood. He digs some hardbread out from his pack. Points at blooms clinging to gaps in the bare trees as he heads to give her half the loaf. Names on his tongue. Snowdrops, jasmine — a single flower bright as a blood-drop amongst the snow, same colour as her hair. Pauses to gaze at it as the name of it trips off his tongue.

“Frostfire.”

Makes him think of her even as she sways right _there_ beside him: ruby hair, blood-blaze colouring her cheeks. Frowns away the thought. Wintertime. Winter-lands. No time for weakness. Thinks it even as he stoops down to pluck the frostfire up from the snowy soil. Says nothing as he starts toward her horse — but he slips the scarlet bloom into her hand along with her half of the hardbread.

*

Something shifts in the air between them after that. Talk turns away from flowers. Finds himself asking more about her village. Lonely towers. Stitches of scarlet thread. Hesitant to tell him at first: ghosts at the edges of her eyes, shiver on her skin. He doesn’t press. Sits his horse, broods as is his way. Comes spilling out of her soon enough.

Castle not a village. Grey stone walls. Weirwood tree and a deep, black pool. Daughter of the lord that used to sharpen a greatsword amongst its crooked roots. Brother that climbed higher than the ravens flew. Mother from somewhere further south: rivers and red mud and eyes the same sapphire-blue.

Squints as she tells him, tries to imagine anywhere further south than the home she speaks of. Knows it — seen its shape on the land beyond the Wall, its name in ash-dark ink on one of the maps Mance keeps in his tent. _Knows_ it; but doesn’t say it — lets her keep it for herself. Her home to mourn: he is just a stranger in the story she spins of it. Listens intently instead, gives a grumble every now and then.

Falls silent for a moment, then gives a billow of a sigh. “I miss it.”

“But you will not go back?”

Hears the rustle of her hair as she shakes her head. “I _cannot_ go back.”

“That man who haunts your dreams… he is there, hmm?”

“Something like that.”

Looks down at his reins. “Your husband?”

“My _captor_.” 

Flat of a fire-warmed axe to a wound, the way she hisses it. Speaking of a man — but the pain of the memories left by him are still white-hot on her tongue. Pulls up the horse, waits till they are both stood still. Looks across to her, feels a flicker of the fury in her eyes warming the valleys of blood in his body.

“You are lost now,” he rumbles. “He won’t find you.”

She says nothing, only nods: once, twice. Sea-ice bobbing on the water, the way her eyes stay fixed on his. Drowns in them for a moment: her eyes — and the little sunlit smile sparking up the corners of her lips.

*

Patch of fur atop the snow is enough for him; but for her he makes a shelter of sealskins. Builds up a cookfire as she lays out the things that made her makeshift bed in the cave: a bearskin white as snow, a fox-pelt bunded up into a pillow. The knife he made her resting by her knee as she sits cross-legged to warm her hands at the fire. Scarlet bloom tucked behind her ear. Finds his breath comes a little harder when he sees that.

He makes a broth from some rabbit-bones, few slices of cured meat that he finds in his pack. Scolds himself as he stirs it: should’ve picked something edible in that glade — not a fucking flower. Broth is thin. His anger, too. How can he stay sullen when he sees that frostfire tucked behind her ear? Frowns. Stares at it a moment, broods as is his way.

Single blood-red bloom in a snowy glade.

 _Kissed by fire_ …

Maybe the gods always intended him to pick it.

Still behind her ear when she lays down in her nest of furs to sleep. He is sitting by the fire, wolf at his side as he banks up the boughs, scrapes away the ashes. Looks up to find her staring across the flames at him, fingers tracing the bone-and-branch lattice he has strung her sealskins to. Pauses in his task, tilts his head at her.

“It’s good?”

She nods. “It’s good.”

“Shelter as we go… you see?”

Echo of a smile now. “I’m a little cold… but I see.”

“Wolf will keep you warm.”

Fingers untangling from the branches to sink into bone-white fur as the wolf lays down beside her. Shrugs the furs a little tighter round his shoulders, drinks in the sight of her: hazy-eyed as she begins to sink back into sleep, the knife he made her in her lap, the wolf at her side, the scarlet bloom behind her ear lost amongst the fire of her hair.

Stares at her a moment, broods as is his way.

Lost girl in the snow.

 _Kissed by fire_ …

Maybe the gods always intended him to find her.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter or two still to go before it’s time to meet the free folk… forgot to mention at the start that the title and general feel of this story is inspired by Ben Howard’s gorgeous song [Promise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CVUOTzoVeZA).   
> Ahh, writing this fic just leaves me **warm** ; so thank you for following along so far, honeys — as ever, please feel free to share your thoughts on it all with me! ❤️


	5. Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘North wind cutting through him: his name in her mouth. She is fire-blind. Staring straight from the dark of dreams to the white-hot heart of the flames he sits beside. Been sat beside them all night. Confuses him: the terror on her face, in her voice — confuses him that she thinks he’d ever leave her to sleep alone beneath the stars.’

Dark still when she bursts awake.

Wide-eyed. Wolf sprung up to hackles at her side. Fingers scrabbling to find her flint-knife. Flow of furs pouring off her lap like a waterfall as she struggles up. To her knees first; finds her feet soon after. Sways on them: a sapling uprooted by a storm.

Teeth chattering, she calls for him.

“Jon? _Jon_.”

North wind cutting through him: his name in her mouth. She is fire-blind. Staring straight from the dark of dreams to the white-hot heart of the flames he sits beside. Been sat beside them all night. Confuses him: the terror on her face, in her voice — confuses him that she thinks he’d ever leave her to sleep alone beneath the stars.

“ _Jon_.”

“Quiet now,” he rumbles at last. “I’m here.”

Low, soft sound in her throat: brook burbling over river-smooth stones. Tremble in her legs; he bounds across to her, catches her just as she folds to the ground. Rocks her close: a little straw-stuffed doll in his arms — all dangling limbs, fear some heavy paint colouring her moonstone cheeks. Feels the trembling warmth of her. Rocks her closer.

“I am here.”

Blinks up at him. Hazily. Fire-blind sheet straining away to spots; knows it’s cleared completely when she closes her eyes. Furrow in her brow. Lashes swept down on her cheeks, heavy frown — neither is enough to hide the leap of relief he saw sparkling in those sapphire depths just now.

“He was there,” she whispers. “Him and his hounds.”

“You are here with me.” Smooths a ruby strand away from her sweat-damp brow; rocks her even closer as she whimpers. “He won’t find you.”

*

Takes another day of hard riding to reach the foothills. Hears the breath leave her throat. Turns to find her gazing up at the mountains: jagged blue-grey bluffs, giant’s teeth capped in cloud. He smiles. Might be he wore that look of wonder once.

Mountains are old friends to him now. Knows their shapes and sounds. Secret meadows where the wildflowers grow even in winter. Jasmine, primroses — frostfires. Looks at the scarlet bloom still tucked behind her ear. Might be the breath leaves his throat now, too. Clicks his tongue against his teeth; clears it even as his thoughts stay foggy.

“Time to walk soon,” he grits out. “We’ll leave the garrons.”

“We’ll just _leave_ them? But — ”

“They’ll find their own way home from here. Always have. Always will.” He fights a smile at the huff she gives. “Be home before us, most like.”

“But won’t wolves — ”

“No wolves here. Save one.” Doesn’t look at her; keeps his eyes fixed on the pawprints cutting a path up ahead of them. “Shadowcats keep to the heights, horses to the hills. Sweet lady knows these parts better than me.” Glances across to her now as he pats his garron’s neck. “That one, too.”

She says nothing; only squints at him — half-suspiciously, half-smilingly — as she tangles her fingers in the garron’s ash-dark mane. Chin held high, heels pressing into shaggy sides; eyes on his even she moves off ahead of him into the mountains. Sits his horse for a moment, brooding, _watching_.

Cuts a different figure now than when she first rode. Arrow-straight in the saddle, sunlight glinting on the ivory-knife of her jaw. Profile of a shield-maiden, some warrior-queen of old. Pushes his heels into his horse. Follows her — even as his head stays foggy, full with how she felt as he rocked her close in the pre-dawn dark. Frowns. Shakes his head. Once.

*

Dreams come again. This time he wakes her. On his knees in her sealskin-shelter. Hand on her shoulder, thumb nestled at the curve of her neck. Closest they have been since he helped her from her saddle that first day in the cave. They watch each other. Her brow is sweat-damp; sea-ice eyes weighed down by the ghosts that make her weak.

 _You are strong_ , he wants to tell her. _You are a shield-maiden, a queen of old_. He wants to tell her that he will teach her how to wield her flint-knife, make her another with a blade sharp enough to pierce a breastbone. Will spar with her. Flesh her bones with sinew till her soft skin is taut with her own strength. Wants to tell her — _aches_ to tell her — that one day she will feel it glow within her, that strength. That she’ll feel it: that she is not her history — she is _herself_.

But she is not herself. Not here, not now. Not _yet_. She is a lost girl in the snow: dreams in drifts that seek to shift and smother her. Sinks back onto his haunches, drags his hand down from her shoulder. Rests it on her forearm. They watch each other.

“You are here with me,” he rumbles. “He won’t find you.”

 _I would kill him if he ever did_.

Doesn’t say it. Doesn’t need to. Might be she sees the truth he denies his tongue flaring white-hot in his eyes. Breath sticking in his throat now; chest rising a little higher with the fury spiking in his blood. Warmth atop the hand he is resting on her forearm. Looks down. Her fingers: slender, soft, moon-pale — tight-woven with his own.

*

Fury ebbs away slowly. Her grip on his fingers softens, too. Spray of stars above them; silver light washing away the ghosts in her eyes. Takes the bone-cup of broth he offers her. Tilts it to her lips, lashes swept down on her cheeks as she drinks. He watches her. Feels her fingers flex between his own. Clears his throat — even as his thoughts stay foggy.

“Hounds again?”

Little shake of her head, a shudder at her jaw. “A mother wailing for her child.”

“It is the mountains,” he says quietly. “Listen.” Tilts his ear to the side, beckon of his fingers stirring the air. “Wind howls. Makes the stones sound like they are screaming.” Meets her eyes, smiles gently. “Makes strange music to fall asleep to.” 

Tightness at the edges of her eyes. “I hoped to never hear that music again.”

“You have slept on a mountain before?”

Little nod of her head. “One as high as honour.”

“Mountains can be many things.” Tries to ignore the rasp of her thumb across the back of his hand. “Dark and brutal and hard. Beautiful, too. But _honourable_?” Gives a soft sound low in his throat. “That they can never be.”

Her grip tightens on his hand. “And the men that move about on them? Build castles on them, rule from their peaks… what of them?”

“Mountains have more honour than most men.” Lifts a brow as he looks from the tight press of her mouth back to her eyes. “But maybe it is different in the south. Maybe men _and_ mountains can be honourable there, hmm?”

She shakes her head: once, twice. Sea-ice bobbing on the water, the way her eyes stay fixed on his. “It is not so different in the south.” A shiver pulling ice-prickles against her skin. “Some men think they can move mountains if they are honourable enough… but there is always another man throwing rocks down at them from the castle at the top of the mountain they seek to move.” Tremble in her lip. “My father was such a man.”

“The man at the top of the mountain?”

“No,” she whispers. “The one trying to move it.”

Ghost of a smile on her cheeks now. She sinks back into her furs after a moment. Falls into a deep, dreamless sleep; keeps her fingers tight-woven between his own. He sits beside her till the dawn-tides wash the ink from the sky: some ragged sentinel keeping watch over a — _his_ — a sleeping queen.

*

He stands at her side to watch the garrons amble off into the mountain pass. Saddle in her hand — pelt of fox-fur, worn leather cinch — takes it from her to fold into his pack. Bundles up his own. Rough-iron stirrups hanging like bracelets round his wrists till he stows them away, too. Shoulders his pack. Finds he doesn’t mind carrying her belongings as well as his own.

“They will find their own way home?”

Smiles at the softness of her voice. “They will.”

“Do you promise, Jon?”

North wind cutting through him: his name in her mouth. Feels her eyes on him; turns so she cannot see the heat in his cheeks, the pulse flickering beneath his beard as he works his jaw. Tries to fight the soft sound aching in his throat. Crunch of snow beneath her boots as she half-turns toward him.

“Jon?”

“Aye,” he rumbles at last. “Lost girl, I promise.”

Half a heartbeat before he lets their eyes meet. Shifts his shoulders beneath the pack; brows bowing upward as the sun crests the jagged blue-grey bluffs up above them. Blooms across her face, that honeyed light. Her skin — gold-edged paper, sunlight on an ice-lake, shimmer of glass — her smile as open as the sky, shining like some fine, rare jewel. Drowns in it for a moment; then turns to lead the way up into the mountains.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _As High as Honour_ is obv a reference to House Arryn’s words from their seat atop the Giant’s Lance at the Eyrie… little weaving-in of memories and promises, hope it’s coming across well, ahhh — _also_ Sansa POV coming up chapter after next which has been my absolute favourite to write so far _**so**_ I hope you like it, too… but till then we’ve got miles to tread and mountains to trek through! Thanks for reading; your thoughts are **more** than welcome, as always. ❤️


	6. Apple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘A beat of silence: crackle of fireflame, whistle of the wind through the mountains. Their eyes unmoving in the gaze they share. Something warm in his chest. Heart half-made of honey; feels the beat of her own between his ribs.’

It takes a day or two to find the path he seeks: a byway between two blue-grey bluffs that the black brothers have never chanced upon to plot onto their maps.

Mapped plenty else, that much is true. Ran his fingertips over marks left in the rock by crows and their ropes and hooks. Handholds cut in with clumsy tools; scrabbled streaks where nails dug in when their footholds crumbled. Found a stash or two some thoughtful brother left buried in a snow-drift, hidden behind stacks of stone.

No footholds here in his byway, though. No marks of hook or rope, no food stashed beneath the snow — no crow has ever flown this far into the Frostfangs. Mountain either side of him is smooth as sanded stone: only wind and wildlings have ever touched it.

Her, too.

Looks over his shoulder at her now. Colder up in the bluffs; a fur of his added to the collection she keeps pulled tight around her shoulders. Didn’t ask for it. Didn’t tell him she was cold. But he caught the shiver of her jaw — sunlight shattering across an ice-lake — would have stripped the shirt off his skin if his fur alone hadn’t stopped that tremble in her lip. Sight of it sat on her shoulders, brushing at her cheek keeps him as warm as if he was still wearing it. Memory of her hand in his — somehow that keeps him warm, too.

*

“What will you say to them?”

He does not look up from rifling through the thoughtful brother’s dark-dyed pack. Hand closing on a withered, half-frozen apple. “Them?”

“Your people.”

Knife in hand, he begins to peel the apple. “About you?”

“Yes.”

Half a shrug, apple spinning between his fingers. “The truth.” Cuts the last of the skin off, whittles the fruit in half. “That I found you half-dead beside a bend in the river.” Stands up, meets her eyes as he holds out her half. “That you followed me into the mountains.” Brush of their fingers as she takes it. “That you are my friend.”

“Am I?”

“Are you what?”

Blinks at him: once, twice. “Your friend?”

“Aye,” he says. “If you wish it.” 

She says nothing, only nods: once, twice. He nods back. She nods again. He does the same. Finds that they are smiling at each other now — laughing as their heads bob like little birds preening at their feathers. Shakes her head now, still smiling. Lifts the apple to her lips as he hefts his half to his mouth. Bite into the fruit; blue eyes warm-wide on his own.

*

They catch up to the wolf as the day is turning dusky. On a stone-ridge, white shoulders bristled, ears pricked; nose lifted at a scent in the air. Turns at the sound of their footsteps. Eyes like embers tilting toward the sky.

He follows their tread, hears the shriek before he spots the bird. Wings blueish-grey as the mountains it floats above. It wheels lazily, drops a foot or two as if to get a better look at the fingerprint figures it circles: a man, a girl, a wolf. Climbs back up into the sky with a final, piercing shriek.

“Is that — ”

“Orell’s eagle,” he says. “We are close.”

“How far?”

Feels the shiver rattling her teeth like a breath of wind on his skin. “Few more miles.” It is fear and not the cold that makes her tremble; he knows this — still, he pretends. “Do you need another fur?”

“There will be a fire there. Food.” Her voice is soft as she says it. “Few more miles — then a fire.” Their eyes meet in a memory woven by words: his — _hers_ now, too. “I’ll be fine.”

Something warm in his chest. His heart half-made of honey as the strength in her soft little voice washes into his belly, burrows between the crooks of his ribs. Thinks she has felt the first flickering glow of it: that strength made not from her history — but from _herself_. She lifts her chin, ghost of a smile on her cheeks. Doesn’t think now. _Knows_ she has felt it, feels it still: ember-warm as the eyes of the wolf at her side.

*

Somehow the wolf finds something for the pot. Mountain hare. Fine white pelt. Thinks what he could make from it as he watches her skin it with her flint-knife. Something pretty to keep her hands warm. Watches her fingers at work. Quicker now, starting to learn the rhythms of a task soon to be second-nature to her. Frowns at himself. Second-nature — _if_ she wills it. Lost girl in the snow. Free to go whenever she pleases. Back to her burned-out village; back to the boy-banners on its gates. He’ll let her go if that’s what she wants. He will — he _won’t_ — he will. Petals on a stem, the way he plucks from one thought to another.

“There!”

Hefts the hare with a flourish. Fire-blush brows lifted high as a smile. He nods at her encouragingly, makes a show of inspecting her work. Quicker fingers, that much is true — but still a little clumsy. There is a nick or two in the fine white pelt. Runs his thumb over the rips mournfully: can make nothing pretty to warm her hands from this studiously-ruined pelt. But she is smiling; and so he finds himself smiling, too.

Cooks the hare with a bit of salt he found in the dark-dyed pack buried by the thoughtful crow. Cuts the last half-frozen apple up, makes a broth to baste the meat in. They talk a little as their supper crisps up over the fire. She takes the frostfire down from behind her ear, cradles the scarlet petals in a soft-cupped palm as she says something about tomorrow. Slips it back onto its perch when he tells her that the hare is cooked.

They eat quietly. She feeds the wolf again. This time he doesn’t even tut. Looks up at her over his bowl, lifts a brow as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“It was good?”

She nods, pats a palm to her belly. “It was good.”

“It will be good,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow.”

Glow of sea-ice in the firelight. “They won’t hurt me… will they?”

“You are my friend now.” Fingertips aching to smooth a fire-streak strand back from her brow. “They can’t hurt you without hurting me.”

Pearl of her teeth nipping at her lip. “They can’t hurt you, can they?”

“They could try,” he says with half a chuckle. “But they would fall.”

Ghost of a smile on her moonstone cheeks. “You are a good fighter?”

“I am a warrior.” He sets his bowl down. “I will protect you always.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“I know who you are — name or no.”

A beat of silence: crackle of fireflame, whistle of the wind through the mountains. Their eyes unmoving in the gaze they share. Something warm in his chest. Heart half-made of honey; feels the beat of her own between his ribs.

“Who am I, Jon?” she asks quietly.

“Lost girl in the snow,” he whispers. “My friend… that, too.” 

Measured, the look she wears as she listens. Chapped lips drawn tight together like a rosebud: red, lush, waiting for a thumb to unfurl them in the springtime — petal by petal. Might be his words hold an echo of that kinder season’s warmth. Because — petal by petal — that sweet little red rose slowly unfurls. Settles in a smile that steals all the light from the fire, all the breath from his lungs.

*

Up before the sun, sat close to him beside the fire. Burnt down to embers now; same colour as the hair she smooths between her fingers. Watches her untangle fire-streak strands, nip out knots with her nails, wind braids till half of her hair is pinned up behind her head. He has seen spearwives dress their hair for battle: plaits and twists and rags — wonders distantly if she is dressing for the same.

He stamps the ashes of the fire out into the snow when she is ready. Hefts the pack onto his shoulders, gives a whistle to tell the wolf it is time to move off from the mountains. She falls in-step beside him. The early sun catches on her braids and twists; makes her look like she is wearing a crown of copper. Fleetingly, he thinks how much he would like to run his fingertips through those fire-streak strands, feel the weight of sun-warmed copper flow across his palm.

Closes his fingers into a fist instead. Makes a sound to clear his throat, even as his thoughts stay foggy.

“Few more miles.”

She nods: once, twice. “Few more miles.”

“It will be good.”

His voice is gentle. Surprises him, that. He looks across to her. She is nodding still. He nods back. Flicker of laughter in her eyes; little bird-heads bobbing. But she is not a little bird shivering in her feathers here beside him. Not a sapling uprooted by a storm. Not a lost girl in the snow. None of them.

She cuts a different figure now — horse or no. Arrow-straight, sunlight glinting on the ivory-knife of her jaw. Profile of a shield-maiden, some warrior-queen of old. Battle braids, a crown of copper. Looks at her smile, thinks — _knows_ — it would taste sweet as the apple they shared high up in the blue-grey bluffs. Lets himself drown in that thought for a moment; then frowns it away.

“Jon,” she says. “Jon?”

Blinks at her as if he is waking from a dream. “Aye?”

“You are _my_ friend, too.”

Looks at her as she says it. Slender, soft, moon-pale as the dainty hands she clasps in front of her hips; but there is a strength to the edges of her face, the pale beauty of her jaw, the clear light in her cool eyes. He sees it. _Feels_ it — her fingers unlocking to circle his wrist in a grip that grounds him like tree-roots to the earth.

He smiles then: a soft, sunlit thing to match her own. They turn as one now — her hand on his arm, her heartbeat an echo between his ribs — and walk in-step toward the cookfires cresting the horizon.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strangers to friends, friends to— it’s tumbling along just _beautifully_ in this mind of mine. Sansa POV next chapter. Till then, stay well, my honeys. Please. ❤️


	7. Kneeler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Jon gives that grumble she has grown used to; she has learned the tones of it, the different meanings: a warning, a call to dinner, a quiet reassurance midway through the night. Has grown to like the weight of that sound on the air.’

Another world, the one in which she walks.

Till now it has been a wash of white and blue: snow, sky — the deep, dark stretch of the river they rode beside that first day they left the cave. Scatters of harsh sunlight on its surface; for half a breath, the world turned silver.

It is not silver now.

Soft sunlight staining the snow: a mix of milk and honey. Thinks of the last time she supped on either. Honeycombs in a castle red as blood. Cheese in the grey halls that used to be her home. It is something jagged inside her, these thoughts that turn and twist. Echo behind her eyes, unfurl like roses — but there are thorns hidden between the petals. Tarry too long and they will prick her. Make her bleed. Shakes her head. Once. There is no time for that, not _now_.

Now is here, not there.

Now is a step toward the horizon, not a slide back into the past.

Now is the wolf at her side, not the hounds that haunt her dreams.

Now is the wildling who saved her, not the bastard who made her bleed.

Now is hers to forge into what she will.

Now is hers to keep.

She takes a soft, steadying breath. Head held high, braids tightening as she turns to sweep a glance at the new world in which she walks. Faces. Hundreds of them — _thousands_. But she has a wolf at her side. She has a _friend_ , too. Flexes her fingers on his arm; walks through this new world as if she has always belonged in it.

*

Nobody makes move to hurt her: man, woman, child — they all look at her the same. Heads to one side, curiosity piquing at the corners of their eyes. Most call greetings, too. Jon gives that grumble she has grown used to; she has learned the tones of it, the different meanings: a warning, a call to dinner, a quiet reassurance midway through the night. Has grown to like the weight of that sound on the air. 

He grumbles again as they turn between a row of sealskin tents. Beckons at the air with his fingers. She follows the tread of their eddies; gives a little sigh at what she sees.

“Told you they’d beat us back.”

Kneads at his arm. “You told it true.”

Ash-dark promise: the garrons cropping at a tussock of ice-grass amongst a swell of other horses. It is something jagged inside her, that he kept his promise, that he did not lie to her — that the mare she rode beside that silver river is safe next to his own. Something jagged; but it does not prick or pierce her. It settles low between the crooks of her ribs: some spreading stain of warmth that makes her heart glow.

“It will be good,” he is saying.

She looks from the garrons. Looks to where they are headed. A small mountain amongst the sea of sealskin tents. Reminds her of the pavilions hefted at tourneys beside a river half a world away. _No_. Shakes her head. Once. _Here, now_. This is not some silken, southron pavilion; this is a mesh of bones and branches and bearskins white as snow. He is gazing at her when she turns away from it to look at him.

“It will be good.”

He smiles as she says it. Nods his head. She nods back. Flicker of laughter in his eyes; little bird-heads bobbing. Thinks of the apple they shared high up in the mountains. Feels the flint-knife he made her solid at her hip. Hears that reassuring grumble rise up from his chest as he holds apart the snow-white bearskins. Knows he is there at her side: sure as the ash-dark promise cropping tufts of ice-grass amongst the tents without.

*

Woodsmoke rises in drifts and twists, weaves its way up to a flute in the bearskin roof. Makes the air blue-grey as the bluffs that led her here. Thick in her throat, but sweet: the rich scent of cooking meat, pinewood burning well beneath it. Distantly, she hears the drapes of the doorway thud shut behind her. Feels the warmth of him at her shoulder.

“Jon.”

There is a woman sat cross-legged amongst the furs scattered across the floor, hand resting on a belly big with child. Dusky hair, sweet smile. But it is not her who has spoken. Out of the shadows steps a man. Rustle of a cloak as he moves: black, red. He has a lute idling in a hand at his hip as another man would hang a sword.

“Mance.”

Sharp brown eyes meet with her own. “Who is she?”

“My friend.”

He looks back to Jon. “You stole her?”

“I found her.”

“Where?”

“At the river-bend.”

A flicker of weariness in those sharp brown eyes. “ _Where_ , Jon?”

“Within sight of the Wall.”

Beat of silence: crackle of firewood, shift of furs. “Played nursemaid to her in a cave… or so I have heard.”

“She had a fever. I fed her broth. Bathed her brow. Made it so she would live.”

Mance asks the same question burning in her belly. “Why?”

“Because it matters.” Jon speaks so softly she strains to hear him. “She is kissed by fire.”

“She is a kneeler, Jon. This is not her place.”

They turn toward the new voice rising thick as the woodsmoke. Giant of a man with a beard of flames halfway down his chest. He rises from the rough-hewn stool he is sat on, makes his way toward the centre of the tent. Jon lifts a dark brow at him.

“Her place is wherever she chooses it to be, Tormund Giantsbane.”

Tormund grunts as Jon would grumble. “Must have a sweet little cunt — get you talking back like that, lad.” Eyes sweeping her now: blue as her own. She stands her ground; shiver on her skin. He turns back to Jon. “Grown bold, have you? Warm mouth on your cock made you feel half a king?”

“Haven’t felt a warm mouth on my cock for too long,” says Jon evenly. “Been away from your daughter’s tent the same amount of time come to think of it.”

Snow-white grin amongst the flames of beard. “Whoreson.”

“Her name is Munda.” Jon is smiling now, too. “Father ought remember what he called his own — ”

“Quiet.” Mance skates between them with a sigh. “ _Both_ of you.” He turns to her now, sharp brown eyes a little softer. “Are you hungry?”

Doesn’t say anything. Just nods at him: once, twice. The woman lifts up from the furs on the floor, goes to fetch some food. Not hungry, not the slightest bit — but she remembers something of what her mother taught her children: bread and salt, safety got in the eating of one or both.

“Bread and salt.” Mance echoes her thoughts, holds out half a loaf to her. “Guest right counts for little in a world where southern riverwater is mixed with blood… but I would offer it to you nonetheless.”

She takes it, ignores the twist his words set in her gut. “Thank you.”

“Does Jon tell it true?” he asks as she eats. “Did you choose to follow him here?”

Warmth at her shoulder, fights the urge to lean back into it. “Yes.”

“Then you are welcome.” Mance looks from her to the men and back again, something like a smile on his sharp-hinged cheeks. “Kneeler or no.”

*

If there is a little fear in her blood, she has no time to feel it.

Bread and salt, a rabbit-leg torn from the roast above the fire. Cup carved of stone filled with something sweet. It is dark on her tongue, slips down her throat like honey. She drinks only a little; she cannot help it — caution weighs heavy on her as frosted winds. But she does not shiver. He is at her side; feels the warmth of him spread like a glow amongst embers. Softens her spine now. Cradles the half-drained cup in her lap as she takes a look at what the woodsmoke wreathes.

Dalla dandles still amongst the scattered furs, wind-worn fingers flexing against the hard curve of her belly. Mance sits beside her, the lute in his lap. He makes a show of tuning it till Tormund cracks a palm to his thigh impatiently. Fingers dance across the strings after Mance hefts a weary sigh. Soon, a melody lifts up to dance with the woodsmoke — pretty enough to make her want to weep.

He sings of stone halls and spears, mountains and men who can never stand tall whilst giants still walk in the light. It is lilting and lyrical and for half a heartbeat she feels a little girl again staring wide-eyed at the greying singer her father kept at Winterfell for a season. It is something jagged inside her, that thought twisting at her heart. Roses. Thorns. Tarry too long and they will prick her. Make her bleed. Shakes her head. Once. It is not time for that, not now, not _here_.

Here is now, not then.

Here is a song of giants, not of ghosts.

Here is warmth at her side, not the ice of memories.

Here is the wildling who saved her, not the bastard who made her bleed.

Here is hers to forge into what she will.

Here is hers to keep.

She takes a soft, steadying breath. Lifts the half-drained cup to her lips, takes a sip — ale or mead, it makes no matter: it is honey on her tongue.

If there is a little fear in her blood still, she can no longer feel it: not now, not _here_. Here, she feels only the warmth of him at her side, the weight of the grumble he gives weaving with the strains of woodsmoke and lute-song on the air.

*

“I will sleep outside — ”

“No.”

Surprises them both, the strength to her voice as she says it. He looks up, rocks back onto his haunches at the doorway to the tent he has led her to. Elbows on his thighs, fingers stirring the air between them like oaks in the wind. Their eyes lift to meet in a swirl of blue and grey. Hears his breath: slow, steady — soft as the half-smile beneath his wild beard.

“No?” he asks.

“No,” she says softly. “You will sleep in here with me.”

Makes himself a bed by the doorway. Their boots side-by-side beside the fire. The wolf is out hunting; but she has her flint-knife in her lap. Can hear him, too. Breathing soft as tiredness washes over them both heavy as the furs about their shoulders. She lays there quietly, stares up at the bone-and-branch lattice propping up the tent. Remembers his words that day they left the cave. _Shelter as we go_. Turns her cheek to the fox-pelt beneath her head now, makes out the shape of him through the shifting fireflame.

“Jon?”

Softer sort of grumble. “Hmm?”

“I am here with you.”

“You are here with me.”

She takes another steadying breath. “He won’t find me?”

“He won’t find you.” A beat of quiet: crackle of firewood, shift of furs. “I would kill him if he ever did.”

“Jon — ”

“Quiet now,” he rumbles. “Time to sleep.”

Keeps her eyes on his shape through the shifting fireflame till her lids roll heavy and dreams colour the skies behind them.

She does not dream of hounds, though, nor of the bastard who made her bleed.

She dreams of a wolf at her side, the wildling who saved her up ahead.

She dreams of stepping toward the horizon.

She dreams of letting the past slide away behind her.

Another world, the one in which she sleeps and dreams — and wakes.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bread and salt. Sansa’s strength. Sharing a tent… ahh, writing this chapter just made my heart glow. This (and the chapter to come) feels _special_ to me. Don’t know why. Just leaves me warm; little bit of sunshine on a grey day. Hope you felt a ray of that light when reading it, my loves. ❤️  
>  **p.s.** [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UXMYrjMc6qs) is a link to the song Mance was singing.


	8. Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Half a moon he has shared his world with her. Half a moon he has showed her the ways of the wild. Half a moon he has shared his little tent with her, eyes following the shadow-shapes of firelight limning the lines of her face as she sleeps…’

Little bird-flutter in his chest when he wakes.

Frowns at the feeling. Palm pressed to his heart as he blinks up at the bone-and-branch lattice of the roof. Wings in his belly now: a thousand of them flitting like late autumn butterflies drunk on nectar. Wonders what is stirring them to frenzy. Lays quietly. Listens.

Creak of the wind against the tent. Soft rasp of pinewood burning up. Flush of embers falling into the ash. A rustle of furs. Red-warm hair shifting. A sigh. A _sigh_ — no scream or sharp, raking sound. She has slept: steady, silent, soft. No wolf-claws fighting with the night. Turns his head to gaze through the fireflame.

She is on her side, moonstone cheek pressed against her fox-pelt pillow. Tide-line tightening then smoothing out between her brows as she gives another sigh. Little bird-flutter in his chest again to hear it; feathers skittering from one rib to another.

Frown gone from his brow — there is no need to wonder at the feeling. He knows what has caused it; knows _exactly_ what makes his heart swoop light as an eagle on the air. Frenzy of butterflies in his belly: her sweet, soft sleep the nectar that stirs them to swirl and spread their little wings till his blood bounds to their beat. Gives into the sweep of the feeling for a breath; crooked up on an elbow to gaze at her.

Lost girl in the snow. Shield-maiden. Warrior-queen of old. His _friend_. It settles low in his chest, burrows deep between the crooks of his ribs, the warmth — the _weight_ — of that feeling.

Half a moon he has shared his world with her. Half a moon he has showed her the ways of the wild. Half a moon he has watched her at work with Val, glower at Tormund’s jests, hiss at Orell’s eagle. Half a moon she has lived and moved within a fold of free folk as if she was born to it. Half a moon he has shared his little tent with her, eyes following the shadow-shapes of firelight limning the lines of her face as she sleeps.

 _Half a moon_.

All that time — and yet his heart still flutters like a fledgling at every sunrise when he wakes to find her there beside him. Palm pressed to his chest; but he does not frown away the feeling now. Lets the little bird soar, spread its wings till his blood bounds to its beat.

*

Wakes slowly, as is her way. Eyes screwing tighter-shut then blinking slowly open. Sits up slowly. Furrow in her brow as she looks about herself. Slowly. Like something hung in amber, the way she moves before the sun is fully risen. Hint of confusion in her eyes. Clears soon as she sees him — always does.

“Time to train,” he says.

She groans softly. “I ache from yesterday.”

“Good.” He is smiling. “Means we are getting somewhere, lost girl.” Laughs now as she shrugs into her furs; another groan creaking as her muscles roll. “Strength growing in your arms, hmm? You feel it?”

Red then blue as her head appears again. “I feel it.”

“It’s good?”

“It’s good.”

“Good.” Throws her an apple; shares a smile. “Meet me at the brook.”

Ducks out of the tent as she is pushing back the bearskin she sleeps beneath. Lets the halves of the doorway thud shut behind him, checks there is no crack between them for some lad to spy through. Wolf is waiting just outside; a fleeting palm laid between bone-white ears — wolf will _stay_ waiting till she is ready to make her way to where the water flows over pale stone and jagged ice.

He cuts a path through the maze of pelts and furs, wooden posts and frost-rimmed skulls. Smoke is rising already from the morning fires; smell of cooking meat, burnt milk. Can hear the bleat of a sheep, bark of a dog nipping at its heels, shout from the herder to _leave it be_. Smoke from Mance’s tent, too. Quiet strain of lute-strings flavouring the air as he pushes on past the mound of snowbear skins.

Path of prints as the ground gives way toward the brook at the base of the hill. Follows the well-trod trackway, picks out the shape of paws and boots and hooves in the snow. Handful of bare trees still standing at the water’s edge. Elsewise, the land is empty; all stripped away for firewood and food. Knows it’ll be time to move on — _soon_ — leave the mountain-valley behind. Pang in his belly as he thinks it. Sanctuary, what this valley has been. For her. For him, too. Frowns. Shakes his head; but he is smiling.

The sky is all the shades of a fire. Yellow, orange — blood-red at its edges. Thinks of her hair as he reads its shapes, listens to its sounds. No storm. No snow. Quiet. Flexes his fingers round the spear-shaft. Smiling still as he takes a step toward the slow-moving brook, ears full of the sound of honey-lit water, head full of thoughts just as sweet.

*

Fish are few: clever enough to avoid this spot, might be — or caught and cooked and eaten and cooled to a scatter of bones in the snow, most like. Land is empty; river, too. But he catches one or two. Little flashes of brown scales slipping like autumn leaves beneath the water. Flint of the spear he hefts hanging light in the air, slamming down through flowing glass; flash of brown scales dragging limp as he flicks the fish from spear-point to palm. One or two. It is enough.

Rolling the sleek brown scales with snow when he hears footsteps. Heavy, unhurried. Tilts his head as he cleans the fish, waits for that voice to ring out: a great brass-bell of a sound. Closer. Closer — 

“Your lost girl get lost again?”

Shakes his head, smiles at the snow. “She’ll be here.”

“Left me black-and-blue yesterday.” Huff of mock-fury. “She tell you that?”

“She told me what words you threw at her from behind your shield.” Gets to his feet, smile widening as he turns on his heel. “Seems like you deserved that mark she’s left on you, Tormund Tall-talker.” Laughs to see it: handprint on his cheek same colour as his flaming beard. “Getting good, isn’t she?”

Tormund narrows his eyes, grins. “Aye, not bad — for a kneeler.” Thumbs through his belt, hips jutted forward. “Might be my boy has taken a liking to your little lost girl, Jon. Follows her like a puppy.”

“Knife in her boot, wolf at her side.” Rises from the riverbank; keeps his voice easy, light. “Best you remind Toregg that.”

Fiery brows raising, grin twisting wider. “Or you will?”

“Aye.”

Grin softens behind the flames of beard. “Not just her cunt you’re sweet on, hmm?”

“Found her.” Half a shrug; heartbeat in his ears. “Falls to me to keep her safe.”

“You don’t fool me, boy.” Tormund has laughter in his eyes. “Hmm — and she keeps herself safe enough. Mark on my cheek is proof o’ that.” Points a finger, brows dancing. “Don’t need no mark on _your_ face as proof o’ what I said — sweet as a suckling lamb, the way you moon about after your little lost girl.” Tips back his head, roars a laugh that shakes the trees. “Puppy and a lamb. What a choice the gods have given her.”

“Off with you, Tormund Giantsbane.”

Laughter echoes up the hill. Grows louder as he crests the top. Jon looks up from the riverbank, sees them there: two flame-haired figures. Tormund’s laughter still shaking the black-knife trees; hers soon joining it as he ducks from another of her well-aimed slaps. Turns on her heel then, picks her way down toward the brook. Wolf at her side, smile on her moonstone cheeks, hair a cloak of fire as the sunlight limns her shoulders. Little bird-flutter in his chest again.

*

“Too low. Arms up — _up_.” Nods as she hefts the wicker-shield he made her a little higher. “There. Now hold your form. _Hold_ it.” Rolls his eyes to the gods in the clouds. “Lost girl in the snow, when will you move like the wolf at your side?”

Scowls at him, throws herself forward. “I’m _trying_.”

“Try harder.” Catches the cut of her wooden blade on the flat of his forearm, nods encouragingly. “That’s it. Again.”

Her scowl deepens to a frown. Tide-lines furrowed taut as she concentrates; has told him she counts her steps like a dancer would. Even in winter boots, she moves dainty as the day he found her. Light as the wicker-shield she bats him with. But there is the strength of a winter storm in half the hits she lands now; fire-bruises in her cheeks as her lips part with the effort of her battle-dance.

Stitches, stone, swords — thinks one day she will be a master of each and all.

Tells her as much when they sink down onto the riverbank to rest. She narrows her eyes at him, crosses them prettily, then reaches an arm round the wolf’s neck. Leans into her, this beast of snow and stone and frosted winds, ember-warm eyes closed tight, tongue lolling like a puppy at play. Thinks of Toregg then; frowns away the thought. She rolls her eyes now as he tuts.

“Soft, spoiled wolf is no good to anyone.”

Frowning now, staring down into eyes ruby-red as her hair. “Does he not have a name?”

“We don’t name our young till they have lived two years.” Half a shrug as he watches them. “Been at my side longer than that… but he has always been _wolf_.”

Brow furrowing deeper. “It’s time he had a name.”

“What will it be?”

Her eyes blue-wide on his own now. “I can choose it?”

“Seems only right.” Half a smile to match his shrug. “He follows you like a shadow. Haunts your bed at night.”

“That is what he’ll always be,” she says softly. “The only ghost I will ever let haunt me.”

Same bit of light in both their eyes now. A smile shivering on her lips; feels the same tremble start in his own. Rush of something on his skin: ice-prickles pulling up as if the gods have leant down to stir the bare trees with their breath. She is nodding before he has even asked his question.

“Ghost?”

“Ghost.”

Hides his shaking fingers by burying them in the scruff of bone-white fur. Wolf turns to look at him: ember-warm eyes like two red suns. Takes a breath, twists a great white ear gently with his fingers.

“Hear that, boy?” he rumbles. “Hear that, Ghost?”

Looks up to find her gazing at him. Sunlight turning her skin to milk and honey; her smile as open as the sky. Brushes her fingers with his own as they weave into the wolf’s bone-white fur. Little bird-flutter in his chest again, whipping up to eagle-height above the mountain of beating butterfly-wings peaking in his belly.

 _Half a moon_ , he thinks. _Give me another half, old gods of the forest. Another after that. Half and half again till my days are done_.

*

Prayer stays lodged behind his eyes like an apple-seed between two teeth. Tries to fight it out of his thoughts, flush it from his blood with each step taken and sword-cut parried. It does no good. It is _there_ within him: something alive, something he is starting to understand — something he has no choice but to bow to.

She is breathing hard by the time the sun is half-sunk behind the hills. He is not; but he is a warrior, cut from beaten metal. She will be the same in time — _if_ she wishes it. Stitches, stone, swords. Master of each and all. No man will ever hurt her again.

 _Half a moon_ , he thinks. _Give me another half, old gods of the forest, and I will see it so_.

Follows her down to the slow-moving brook, weight of his prayer heavy as the snow-drag on his boots.

The sky is all the shades of a fire. Yellow, orange — blood-red at its edges. It spills across the water, turns it to a looking-glass wreathed in flames. Laps around their ankles as they stoop to drink. Wolf wades in with them. Puts a hand between the bone-white ears; they prick up as he sounds out the new name.

Beside him, she squats very still, blue-wide eyes trained on the honey-lit water. He follows her gaze, sees the ripple of her reflection. Drinks it in: the strength of the edges of her face, the pale beauty of her jaw, the clear light in her cool eyes. Looks up to find her still transfixed. Gives a grumble low in his throat: soft, inquisitive, reassuring.

“Is that me?” she asks at last.

“It is not some water-spirit.”

“I look… different.”

“You look strong,” he says. “Like a wolf — the light in your eyes.”

Glances across at him, furrow in her brow. “It is not some water-spirit?”

“It is you,” he says. “A wolf.” Reaches out to catch her chin gently between his fingertips, tilts her back toward the water. “You see?”

She nods: once, twice. “I see.”

“Quiet now,” he rumbles. “You see?” They stare at each other; there is a light in her eyes to rival the dawn. Makes the breath tangle in his throat. “Look. Listen — and you will _see_.”

“I see,” she says softly. “Jon, I _see_.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little time-jump; few more words than usual — hope you didn’t mind the extra reading! Sansa is beginning to find her strength and forge it anew. Ripples of that ebbing into the next chapter… till then, thank you **so** much for reading, honeys. ❤️


	9. Hymn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Their eyes meet. “I had a wolf once,” she says so softly he strains to hear her. “Eyes like the sun. Soft as she was sweet.” Gazes down at the moonlit snow. “She was taken from me.”’
> 
> also this is the soundtrack to my (world-writing) life at the moment: [❄️](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RNjrUz1sgxQ)

It is as though a storm has shaken her, the way she staggers back from the water. Fingers flailing at the air, feet scrabbling as she pushes up from her haunches. 

He catches her wrist, sets her still till she sways quiet as the water over the river-smooth stones beneath their boots. Lets her breathe. Hears it: slow, steady — soft as the grip he keeps on her wrist. Sways with her, opens his hand to let her creep her fingers between his own: link-locked like their shields scattered on the riverbank behind them.

“What did you see?” he asks at last.

Something in the sea-ice of her eyes. “Myself.”

“Why are you afraid?”

Fire in those blue depths — fury, too. “I am not afraid.” A breath that shudders between her teeth like fine-whipped winds. “I am angry.”

“Why are you angry?”

“Because I am strong,” she says on the ebb of a gale. “Because I want the little girl I used to be to know that… I want the men who made her weak to know that.” Her fingers flex between his own; there is a tremble in her lip he longs to soothe with his thumb. “I want to howl like a wolf until they _all_ — ”

Her words are torn from her tongue by the force of her fury. It tears through her like the storm that shook her half a heartbeat ago; makes her stagger to her knees in the honey-lit water. Shades of fire, a looking-glass wreathed in flames — and he is her mirror. On his knees beside her, fingers bound together.

“Howl,” he rumbles. “Howl.”

Long and hard, the sound she skates into the sky. Ghost between them; head tipped back in an agony as silent as hers is sonorous. Jon shudders. Puts his brow to the furs blanketing her shoulder, feels his heart flitting eagle-height in his chest. Rush of something on his skin: ice-prickles pulling up as if the gods have leant down to lend their breath to her song.

*

They stay beside the slow-moving brook till the storm has tumbled toward the horizon. He spreads a fur atop the snow, sits at her side as the sky turns dark. The tremble has gone from her lip; but the fury has not quite washed from her eyes. He is glad of that. Means that strength is glowing white-hot within her. Feels an echo of it flit between the crooks of his ribs like a little bird. 

Ghost drifts out from the black-knife trees, flies across the water with the barest sound. Climbs up the bank to sit beside them. She sinks her fingers into the bone-white fur, leans her cheek to the wolf’s warmth. They sit and breathe together: three fingerprint figures — a man, a girl, a wolf — in a world of white and silver.

“Found him in the snow,” he says as they lean together. “Little runt, he was. Rest of the litter long gone into the hills.” Drifts of smoke as he sighs through his nose. “Mother rotted down to bones beside him… how he survived is for the gods to know.”

“He was waiting for you.”

“Was he?”

Lifts her cheek from the warm, white flank. “Seems to me you have a habit of finding things in the snow,” she says softly. “Wolf-pups, women…”

“I give you fair warning that what I find I most often keep.”

Spark of laughter in her eyes; something else, too. “Wolves and women both?”

“Aye.”

She gives a half-smile to match his own. “You’ve had many before?”

“Wolves?” he asks.

“Women.”

“One.”

Their eyes meet. “I had a wolf once,” she says so softly he strains to hear her. “Eyes like the sun. Soft as she was sweet.” Gazes down at the moonlit snow. “She was taken from me.”

An arrowhead skating down his side, the look she turns on him. His fingers find her chin, a thumb ghosting the breath curling from her lips. Little bird-flutter in his chest; the warmth — the _weight_ — of it all burrowing deep between the crooks of his ribs.

_Half a moon_ , he thinks. _Give me another half at her side, old gods of the forest. Another after that. Half and half again till my days are done_.

“No-one will ever take this wolf from you,” he rumbles as Ghost noses at her side. “I swear it.” Feels her fingers lift to touch the hand he holds her face in. “With all I am, I swear it.”

*

Quiet strain of lute-strings flavouring the air as they push their way into the mound of snowbear skins. Mance is lit by the glow of flame and food. Takes the fish from Jon with a smile, a backward glance toward Dalla as she calls to them from her cookfire. Ale, a little cheese, a bit of salted mutton. Each mouth that would eat here finds something for the pot. Smell of it rises to bandy with the woodsmoke: rich and sweet and thick.

Fills her bowl first whilst she finds herself a seat at the fire. Has taken to sitting beside Val; moonbeam and sunset, the way their hair bleeds together as they talk and laugh. He is glad of it. Means that strength within her will never chip away its softer edges. Means that she will fight and hunt and stalk and snarl — but laugh and love, too. Frowns. Shakes his head. Once. Carries her bowl across to her, then turns back to fill his own.

Crackle of boughs as the fire burns low. Empty bowls, full bellies; Tormund a heap of fur lapsed half-asleep in the corner. Mance keeps up his playing, fingers dancing across strings silver as the moon without. Gives an airy lift of his brow, beckons for them to join his singing as he taps a tune out with his foot.

They sing of Black Robin and Danny Flint, voices rising low and mournful to mix with the sweetness of the blue-grey air. He watches her through the shifting fireflame; sees her lips shaping the sounds of the sad, pretty songs. He is glad of it. Means that she can hum as well as howl. Means that she will fight and hunt and stalk and snarl — but sing and sigh, too. Frowns. Shakes his head. Once. It does no good; he keeps up his watching. His wanting — that lingers, too.

*

Prays that it will fade. Thumbs tucked into his palms, knuckles flexing into a fist. But it does not fade. Grows stronger as he watches her lips shape her own prayers now. Hums them beneath her breath when she is washing her hands in the brook. Little word-burst as she bends to stoke the fire. Catches one or two. Head to one side as he listens.

Tormund is not so quietly curious. Lurches up from his sleep-stained corner of the tent one evening when the food is eaten and the singing not yet begun. Squats down beside her where she sits amongst the scattered furs with Val and Dalla.

“What is it you sing, _gǫh_?” he asks.

Glow of sea-ice in the firelight. “A song from the south.”

“It is like none I’ve heard before.”

She smiles at that. “It is a hymn.” Glances at the cookfire. “It is said that if you sing it well and true it shines bright as candle for the gods to see.”

“Hmm.” Tormund rocks back on his haunches, deep in thought. “I see it bright as any candle… even as you sing it beneath your breath.” Lifts a fiery brow at her as he grins. “Best sing it well and true, _gǫh_ — that way the gods can see it, too.” 

Jon thinks she might refuse, land another of her well-aimed slaps. But she doesn’t refuse, doesn’t say a word. Leans back into his furs, hand slipping from the dagger at his belt as Tormund lifts up from the fire and sits with knowing eyes in his sleep-stained corner. Quiet and still — then Mance takes up a tune.

It is as though a storm has settled low within her, the way she rises on legs made of air. Fingers trailing eddies in the woodsmoke as she closes her eyes and finds something deep and good and true in the rhythm of the lute-strings. Sways with her, his own eyes slipping shut as she sings a hymn that bursts between his ribs like a falling star. Soars and echoes. Steals all the light from the fire, all the breath from his lungs.

*

Bent over the fire in their tent as she slips beneath her sleeping furs. He does not look up from the flames, gives a grumble low in his throat. Pokes at the boughs once he has asked it, rakes up the ashes. Waits. Feels that falling star land and burst and blaze in his chest as she sings her hymn for him. Quieter this time: steady, slow — soft as the smile half-hidden beneath his wild beard.

Humming it still beneath her breath as he lays down to sleep. He closes his eyes, lets the sound fill his ears, slip through his skull like the current of the slow-moving brook.

Thinks of her howl — fine-whipped winds, the ebb of a gale — hears an edge of it in her hymn. He is glad of that. Means that strength is glowing white-hot within her. Feels an echo of it settle in his belly heavy as a stone dropped into a river. Turns his head on the fox-pelt pillow, finds her eyes through the shifting fireflame. The song dies on her lips.

“Why did you save me?”

Shakes his head as they stare at each other. “Didn’t save you. Found you.” Like smoke in his throat, the way his voice curls out low and hazy. “Saved yourself, hmm? Burnt-out village. Boy-banners on its gates. Men and memories. Wasn’t me that ran from all of that.” Ache in his chest even as he smiles. “That was you… all _you_ , lost girl.”

“You could have left me,” she whispers. “In the snow. Morning after. They all wanted you to.”

Voice bursts from him: a flurry of smoke from a fire. “ _I_ did not want to.”

“Why?”

Blue-wide eyes fixed on his own. “Kissed by fire. I knew that you would live.” Tremble in his lip; tries to hide it with another smile. “What is a cup of water and a few days in a cave compared to that?”

“I don’t understand,” she whispers.

“Hmm,” he says quietly. “You think I do?”

Crooks up on her elbow, tide-lines pulling across her brow, teeth nipping at her lip. Light in her eyes to rival the dawn. He turns away from it, stares up at the bone-and-branch lattice of the tent, tries to fight the wanting. It rages in him like the storm that shook her by the slow-moving brook.

“Jon — ”

“Quiet now,” he rumbles. “Time to sleep.”

He thinks she might protest, throw a flash of spirit at him as she did that day they left the cave. But she doesn’t protest, doesn’t say a word. Just hums her little hymn beneath her breath. Hums it low and sweet. Hums it till his lids slip shut and dreams colour the skies behind them. Skies that are all the shades of a fire. Yellow, orange — blood-red at the edges, same colour as her hair.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occasionally, I will fold a few little words and phrases borrowed from other languages and cultures into the wildling world we’re weaving here, I hope that’s okay. 
> 
> Tormund’s little nickname for Sansa — **_gǫh_** — is what the Tłı̨chǫ people of the Canadian Northwest Territories call the **fireweed** plant: a wildflower that is one of the first to appear after a forest-fire. In real life it is pinkish-red; but here in the Lands of Always Winter I like to imagine it can be a little more red than pink… so yes, Sansa is Tormund’s little fireweed because he is a sweet boi like that. 
> 
> Hope you are all keeping well, honeys — and thank you for reading! ❤️


	10. Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “Lost girl in the snow,” he rumbles. “You are as free now as when I found you.” Keeps his eyes on her own: steady, soft — even as his heart beats its ache against his ribs. “Could get lost again. Nobody would stop you… knife in your boot’d see to that.”

Quiet.

Like something hung in amber, the way she moves before the sun is fully risen. Always slow and soft and steady — but never quiet. Her eyes resting on his own for half a heartbeat. Hammer-blow to his belly. There is no confusion in them. No fury. No fire. Nothing. They are an ice-lake: nary a finger-ripple streaking across the surface.

Quiet, the way she looks at him — then looks away.

It is a storm in him, the swell that settles low in his belly as he watches her move about the sealskin tent they share. Rattles at his ribs. Plunges eagle-height into his chest: a bolt of lightning renting blue-black the echoes of his heartbeat. Quiet. He is used to quiet; but this is a quiet that makes his breath come a little quicker.

Flash of spirit: that is what he thought she would throw at him as they lay beside the fire, as she asked him why, as he told her it was time to sleep. But she didn’t protest, didn’t say a word. Even now, she is quiet. But he understands this quiet for what it is: a protest as potent as words thrown with heat and fury, a protest silent as a wolf keeping to the shadows of the trees. Little bird-flutter in his chest to know it, to _see_ it.

“Meet me at the brook.”

Quiet, the way he listens to her command — then turns to obey it.

*

He makes his way to the slow-moving brook. Maze of pelts and furs, wooden posts and frost-rimmed skulls. Smoke from the morning fires. Cooking meat, burnt milk. Sheep bleating. Dog barking. Herder shouting. Quiet strain of lute-strings flavouring the air as he pushes on past Mance’s tent.

Makes him think on the hymn that mingled with the woodsmoke, the hymn she hummed beneath her breath — low and sweet — till he slipped soft to sleep. Makes him think of the fire that lay between them, the fire that coloured the dream-skies behind his lids. Yellow, orange — blood-red at the edges, same colour as her hair.

Battle braids, a crown of copper. The figure she cuts now: arrow-straight, sunlight glinting on the ivory-knife of her jaw. Profile of a shield-maiden, some warrior-queen of old. Cuts the figure of one — fights like one, too.

He has taught her how to wield her flint-knife, made her another with a blade sharp enough to pierce a breastbone. She wears them both in a leather belt about her slender hips. Spar together at every sunrise. Found her an old iron sword. Parry and slash and heft; quiet pride in his belly to watch her step and spin out her battle-dance. Can shoot an arrow, bend a bow and draw its string straight and true. Her bones are fleshed with sinew. Her soft skin is growing taut with her own strength.

Looks up at the sky as he follows the path of prints toward the brook at the base of the hill. She is strong now. He is glad of it — and afraid of it. Afraid that with her strength will come her leaving. Eyes resting on the black-knife trees shivering in the ripple of wind. He is not ready for her to leave. Not yet.

_Half a moon_ , he thinks. _Give me another half at her side, old gods of the forest. Another after that. Half and half again till my days are done_.

Might be the gods hear him. Watches as they stir the black-knife trees with their breath, as the thin boughs whip and tremble. Rush of it on his skin, pulling at his furs, pushing at the backs of his knees. He follows, turns on his heel to find her standing on the brow of the hill. Battle braids, a crown of copper — her hair a cloak of fire as the sun crests the mountains, makes her glow like a goddess in its light.

*

Parry and slash and heft; her teeth are gritted as she steps and spins out her battle-dance. A wolf keeping to the shadows of the trees, the way she stalks round him. Blue-fire eyes flitting to follow the sweep of his blade, the punch of his shield. A sheen of sweat across her brow as they rest on the riverbank.

He points to it. “Your skin… it’s like glass.”

“Glass?”

It is the first word she has spoken since her command in the tent. Little bird-flutter in his chest to hear her voice spin out: low and sweet as her hymn.

He nods. “Seen it, raiding in the south. Pretty colours at the windows of your strange, stone houses. Like rain in the light — shimmers.” Puts his palms together, moves his connected hands back and forth. “Fish moving beneath the water, the way those windows shimmer.” Her eyes resting on his own: a fork of sea-ice cutting to his core. “Shimmer even when you smash them. Bits of them on the ground, red and green and blue.”

“Why do you break them?”

Spreads his hands. “Pretty windows — prettier things behind them. Gold, gemstones. Silver coins. Bearskins in front of their fires.”

“You take the bearskins?”

“We take it all,” he says quietly. “Wolfskins, wine… women.”

Hardness to her eyes now, her voice. “You break them, too?”

“They come to like it. Life among the free folk.” A wolf keeping to the shadows of the trees, the way she watches him; but he is well-used to her pace by now, has grown to know it, to _see_ it. “They can ride and hunt and spit curses at their men. Wear furs or silks or nothing at all. Get big with child or go to a woodswitch. Up to them.” Twists his beard round and round a thumb. “Life is hard here — but at least they are free.”

“Are they?” she asks quietly. “Are any of us free?”

“Lost girl in the snow,” he rumbles. “You are as free now as when I found you.” Keeps his eyes on her own: steady, soft — even as his heart beats its ache against his ribs. “Could get lost again. Nobody would stop you… knife in your boot’d see to that.”

They stare at each other. Prayer flutters behind his eyes, beats its wings about his skull; but he ignores it. He’ll let her go if that’s what she wants. He will — he _won’t_ — he will. Petals on a stem, the way he plucks from one thought to another. Breath comes a little quicker. Hammer-blow to his belly as he gazes into her eyes. He will let her go if that’s what she wants — he _will_. There is no other way: it is a stem with no more petals left to pluck.

“I could get lost again,” she repeats softly. “Or I could stay?”

A wolf bounding from the shadows of the trees, the way she watches him now. Light on her eyes: sea-ice bobbing on clear water. Feels the currents shifting in them. His fingers following their ebb-and-flow; stirring the air like oaks in the wind. Smoke in his throat, the husk of his voice dipping low as he nods: once, twice.

“Aye,” he says. “If you wish it.”

She says nothing, only lifts up to her feet. Brushes snow from her furs. Hefts her wicker-shield, looks down at him as she waits for him to pick up his own.

*

Something shifts in the air between them now.

He feels it: the glow that burrows deep between the crooks of his ribs, blooms across his chest. Petals for lungs, heart half-made of honey — sweetness of both bandying with the salt-ice breath in his throat.

He _sees_ it: the joy at the edges of her eyes as she steps and parries and hefts and slashes.

Once or twice, she lets her joy explode into a laugh blue-wide as the gaze they share.

Quiet, the way he takes it in.

Quiet, the way he prays that he will never again turn her eyes to an ice-lake. Never put out their fury. Never tread their fire to ashes beneath his silence. He will look for every finger-ripple streaking across the surface. He will answer anything she would ask him. He will follow her, obey her in everything. He will tell her of his heart — if and when she asks to know its rhythms.

“Hold your form, _edzèa_ ,” he says through the smile in his voice. “Hold it. Good.” Sea-ice eyes narrowed in challenge; huffs a laugh through his nose. “ _Good_. Again.”

Flat of her iron sword chipping against his shield, clipping at his chin. Joy at the edges of her eyes. A laugh blue-wide as the gaze they share bursting up from her throat.

_Half a moon_ , he thinks. _Give me another half at her side, old gods of the forest, and I will tell her all there is to know_.

Basks in the song of her laughter — then spits the blood from his mouth, rolls his eyes at her as they follow the rhythm of their battle-dance.

*

Humming beneath her breath as they step away from the slow-moving brook. Low and sweet, the light that spills through the jagged slopes of snow and stone. He follows the glitter of it, turns on his heel to find her standing on the brow of the hill beside him. Battle braids, a crown of copper — her hair a cloak of fire as the sun sets behind the mountains, makes her glow like a goddess spun of glass in its light.

Her eyes are closed, face upturned to the last glimpse of warmth on the air. Tide-lines in her brow smoothed out. Looks at her as the sun gives her its last little glow.

Slender, soft, moon-pale as the dainty hands clutching at her wicker-shield; but there is a strength to the edges of her face, the pale beauty of her jaw, the clear light in her cool eyes as she blinks them slowly open. He sees it. _Feels_ it — the look she turns on him: it sets as strong a grip on his heart as the centuries that bind tree-roots to the earth.

“Jon,” she says. “Jon?”

Blinks at her as if he is waking from a dream. “Aye?”

“Did you mean what you said?”

“What did I say?”

“That I could stay.”

“Aye.” Little bird-flutter in his chest. “I meant it.”

She nods her head: once, twice. “I want to stay.”

“Then you will stay.”

Sea-ice bobbing on the water, the way her eyes stay fixed on his. “Here with you?”

“Here,” he rumbles as the breath tangles in his throat. “With me.”

Quiet, the way they look at each other now in the sun’s fading fire.

Gentle, the way she lays her hand to his cheek — as if he is spun from the glass that shimmers like rain in the light. Like fish moving beneath the water. Like the glow of her skin, her eyes: the blue-wide laugh lifting up from her lips. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t judge me but… I teared up a little when writing that end bit. What can I say? These two in this setting just seem to make my emotions run a little high, okay ***** weeps ***** little time-jump in the next chapter now that our girl has decided to stay awhile with her wildling wolf-man; till then — thanks so much for reading, honeys! ❤️  
>  **p.s.** if you are wondering about _**edzèa**_ … that will be made clear chapter after next. _Also_ the pacing of posting will probably slow a little from now on; I feel like I am throwing things at you without even giving you enough time to catch them so apologies for that — and thanks for sticking with me for **10** chapters, lovelies, you are all wonderful! 🥰


	11. South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “You are here with me.” Low and soft, voice curling from his throat like a fire burned down to embers. “Wherever we may go, you are always here with me.”
> 
> enjoyed a little **#VikingsVibe** whilst writing this chapter: [⚡](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tns6yK86gII)

He tells her the stories of his people. A new one at every sunset, words warm as the fire burning up between them.

They flow from him, these fire-warm words — endless as a river. Words that weave the tapestries of the only world he has ever known. Tapestries hung like stars the space between them of this world that she calls her own now, too. Hers as it is his, this world in which they move and talk and spar and sleep and breathe together.

Makes a glow spark up deep in his belly every time he remembers it: her choice on the brow of the hill. Quiet sunlight dancing shadow-shapes across the lines of her face. Her palm cradling his cheek. Prayers and promises thick as the tapestries he weaves between them when the moon is high and fire burning low.

She learns the rhythms of this world — his world, _their_ world — picks up the threads he throws her as if she is still a southron girl stitching in a lonely tower. But it is not griefs and ghosts and gilded pain she weaves with her hands now. It glimmers, these threads, these stitches, this tapestry that shimmers in the air between them.

It glimmers — and it makes her smile, not sigh and slip tears to the back of her hand. It brings her joy. He sees it. _Feels_ it — the blue-wide look she greets his stories with at every sunset.

*

Tells her — shows her, too.

First time she saw a giant that southron girl threatened to come out again. Knees made of water, fingers clutching at his arm. But he covered her hand with his own, drew her into the curve of his side and made a sound low in his throat. Smiling, too; but he did not let her see that. Spoke a sentence — short rattle of ancient words — pressed her fingers as she stepped forward to face her fears.

Wun Wun the Weak, the free folk call him now. The giant does not seem to mind — not when it is a girl kissed by fire that makes him simper and search for pretty shone-up stones to set in the snow at her feet. Knees of water are a distant memory; these days, she bends to touch the heavy boulders, beams up that they are the best gifts yet. 

Tormund laughs till he is hoarse to see it.

“Puppy and a lamb — and now a _giant_.” Glitter of tears at the corners of his eyes as he grins. “The gods spoil our _gǫh_ every passing day.” Points a finger over his ale-cup. “Better watch it, boy. Can take her pick o’ tent-mate any time she likes.”

“Off with you, Tormund Tall-talker.”

But Jon is smiling, too.

 _Half a moon_ , he thinks. _Give us another half, old gods of the forest. Another half in the quiet of the mountains. Half and half again till our days are done_.

Thinks it as he watches her smooth a palm across a shiny boulder big as an ox. Prays it — even as he knows it cannot be.

*

Gods are as good as they can be: they give him half a moon more in the valley between the mountains. Another after that. Half and half again. It is enough.

Enough to settle into a rhythm steady as the slow-moving brook; wake and eat and train and talk and sleep. He wears the bruises of their battle-dance, more and more littering his skin as she grows stronger. Makes her a shield carved of weirwood, uses the wicker one as fuel for the fire. She hefts it easy as her giant lifts his smooth-shone boulders.

Can skin a hare without watching the pattern of her fingers now; sea-ice eyes cracked wide in laughter at a jest Val makes beside the fire. Doesn’t make rips in the pelts anymore. He crafts a thing or two from the fine, white slips of skin and fur. Something pretty to keep her hands warm. She wears them as he wears the bruises of her making on his skin: with joy at the edges of a firelit gaze, a half-smile lifting fire-warmed cheeks.

Around them, men ride off to dig the mountain graves. Day after day, chipping through snow-drifts and jagged stone. Mance waits for news of the day’s digging, sitting in his bearskin tent, wearing a frown of disappointment over dinner. Eve after eve, he tells them that what he seeks they still cannot find: the horn that sits in the tomb of some old king or warrior, the horn heavy with enough magic to melt a cliff of ice.

“Why do you want to bring down the Wall?”

Her voice is smooth as the fingers she wields her flint-knife in, slipping the blade between skin and flesh, pulling free another fine pelt for Jon to make into something pretty as the shadows of fireflame turning her skin a hundred shades of milk and honey.

“It is not a case of want or wish.” Mance meets her eyes; she holds them steady. “Winter is coming, my lady.” Not a flicker, nary a finger-ripple streaking across the surface of her gaze; but Jon wonders at the tremble of her body against his own. “Feel those words, can you? Bite of them in the wind that stirs up from the ice.” Sad little smile on Mance’s sharp-hinged cheeks. “Winter is _here_ — and monsters move with men in the dark of it.”

She blinks at him: once, twice. “A horn will save us?”

“A horn may see us safe.” Leans a little closer toward the fire. “May buy us passage.”

Fingers gripping at her flint-knife. “Passage where?”

“Somewhere far from here,” says Mance quietly to the flames. “Somewhere not one of us longs to return to.” That smile even sadder on his cheeks as he lifts his gaze to hers again. “Least of all you, my lady.” Gathers himself up as if a breath of wind has stirred him, claps his palms together. “But that is woe for another day, friends — now we eat and drink enough to forget all but the words of the songs we will sing.”

*

Like stars the space between them as they eat and drink and sing. Her knee against his knee; her fingers on his arm. Lets her settle her hand there for a while, then covers it with his own. Touch as light as he can make it. Brush of his thumb against the bone-notches of her wrist. Her fingers parting slowly to weave between his own. Feels the rasp of their skin as little shocks of storm-light ebbing to his soles.

Quiet, the look she turns on him. He meets her eyes, obeys them in an instant. On his feet, rumble of voices sifting up from those still gathered round the cookfire. Ducks into the icy air without. Reads the skies, frown knitted on his brow. No storm. No snow. Quiet. Sways on his feet. Listens.

Beat of silence: creak of the wind through the tent-tops, rustle of furs — rasp of red-warm hair as she steps out of the mound of snowbear skins to stand beside him.

They look at each other.

“We cannot stay in the mountains forever.”

She nods at him: once, twice. “Where will we go?”

“South.”

Glimmer of sea-ice in the moonlight. “South? But — ”

“You are here with me.” Low and soft, voice curling from his throat like a fire burned down to embers. “Wherever we may go, you are always here with me.”

Little sigh between her teeth. “Do you swear it?”

“I swear it.” Fingertip ghosting the curve of her cheek. “With all I am, I swear it.”

Her hand lifting to the one he cups her face with. “He won’t find me?”

“He won’t find you,” he rumbles. “I would kill him if he ever did.” Holds her gaze, drifts his thumb the line of her nose. “I swear that, too.”

Slowly, the fire burns back into her eyes. They watch each other. Flicker of his eyes to the pulse-point at her throat, the shallowing of her breath as her heartbeat calms to match his own: slow, steady — soft as the hold he keeps on her face, soft as the fingertips she brushes against the back of his hand.

“We will go south,” she says quietly. “It will be good.”

“It will be good, _edzèa_.”

Like stars dipping to touch the earth, the press of his brow to hers. Lasts for half a heartbeat: the warmth of their skin together, the kiss of their hair, the relief flowing from her eyes into his own — heavy as a stone dropped into a river. Pulls back. Slowly.

They watch each other. Light in her eyes to rival the dawn as she leans forward. Slowly. Lets his lips skate the tide-lines smoothing out across her brow. Lingers there for longer than a heartbeat: his hands sliding ruby-strands back from her cheeks, her palms fluttering like wings on his nape — his lips ember-warm on her skin.

*

Find the garrons cropping tufts of ice-grass amongst the shadow-shapes left in the snow where the tents once stood. She stands at his side as he rifles through his pack, holds out her hand. Takes the saddle — pelt of fox-fur, worn leather cinch — from him to put upon her mare’s snow-dusted back. Does the same with his own. Rough-iron stirrups hanging like bracelets round his wrists till he ties them to the pelts. Shoulders his pack, helps her shrug into her own. Leans back on his heels to look at her.

Arrow-straight, the figure she cuts against the milky light of the rising sun. Not a tremble in the ivory-knife of her jaw. Clear light in her cool eyes. Strength to every bit of her: the edges of her face, the square way she holds her shoulders.

Takes his breath from his lungs to look at her.

Profile of a shield-maiden, some warrior-queen of old. His _friend_ — the wingbeat of her hair in the wind enough to stir his heart to flit and flutter between the crooks of his ribs. Puts a palm to his chest. Sighs smoke through his nose. Does not turn away from the smile she gifts him; but he frowns at the tremble in her lip. Holds out his hand.

She takes it. Fits herself flush into the curve of his side, fingers flexing on his arm as he makes a sound low in his throat. Looks into her eyes. Not a flicker, nary a finger-ripple streaking across the surface of her gaze; but he feels the tremble of her body against his own. Feels it — does not need to wonder at it.

Burnt-out village. Boy-banners on its gates. Men and memories. The south is not a home to her any longer; it is a hell of griefs and ghosts and gilded pain. But the horn has been found. Tents packed up. There is nothing to keep them in the mountain-valley now. It is time to leave, to step forward and face their fears — together.

Quiet, the way they watch each other now.

“Here.” Lifts her hand to lay it atop the palm pressed to his chest. “With me.”

Flex of her fingers, sea-ice eyes glowing in the sunlight. “Wherever we may go?”

“Wherever we may go.”

“Do you promise, Jon?”

North wind cutting through him: his name in her mouth. They look at each other. He does not turn from her. Does not try to fight the soft sound aching in his throat. Tightens his fingers on her hand. Crunch of snow beneath her boots as she steps in closer to his body. Locked together by blood and bone and breath. No space for stars between them now; but the air is aglow around them as the mountain-valley empties out.

“Jon?”

“Aye,” he rumbles at last. “ _Edzèa_ , I promise.”

Her smile shimmers as he says it. Nods her head. He nods back. Flicker of laughter in her eyes; little bird-heads bobbing. But she is not a little bird shivering in her feathers here against him. Not a sapling uprooted by a storm. Not a lost girl in the snow. None of them.

She is a shield-maiden, a warrior-queen of old. She is kin with the wild, friend of giants. She is of this world: his world, _hers_ — this world they share, this world in which they move and talk and spar and sleep and _breathe_ together.

Prayers and promises thickening the air now as the tapestries of stories woven between them when the moon is high and fire burning low. Prayers and promises. He will keep each and every one — no matter the stones and slopes they may come to tread.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! We are (slowly) moving south. But the Sansa returning is not the Sansa who fled. It is as Jon said and more: she can fight, hold her own in the face of kings and warriors… she also has a bloody _giant_ wrapped round her little finger (isn’t he the sweetest sweet boi our boulder-enthusiast Wun Wun!) She is someone to fear; someone to **love and follow** — that, too. Next chapter will see some truths revealed, some words explained… I hope you are still enjoying this story, honeys — thank you so much as always for indulging this world that I simply adore weaving; I appreciate you all lots. ❤️  
>  **p.s.** not sure how much (if at all) the show references the [Horn of Winter](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Horn_of_Winter); it’s still a pretty central pivot in book-verse timeframes etc. Left a little link in case anyone is curious!


	12. Little Hart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Sleep a little closer now. Bodies curved round the flat stones circling the glowing embers, heads bent together. He lays on his back, listens to the rise and fall of her breath: slow, steady — soft as the flutter of his heart to hear her clear the smoke from her throat, shift her head toward his on the fox-pelt pillow...’
> 
> shoutout to the lovely Semperlitluv for the nudge toward _the_ best chapter-writing soundtrack: [🏹](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=49efzOBB8nk&t=1071s)

It is a sight to see: a fold of free folk emerging from the jagged valley between the mountains. Hundreds of them — _thousands_. But she is there beside him. Ghost keeps close up ahead. Three fingerprint figures — a man, a girl, a wolf — bound together by a thread so thin might be only the gods can see it.

Once or twice, Jon thinks he catches a shimmer of it. Wolf’s bone-white coat flashing in the light of the early sun. Edge of a tremble to her eyes: sea-ice bobbing on clear water soon as he turns to calm the fear that beats her blood to frenzy. Feels an ebb of it: salt-hot pit echoing up his belly. Holds her gaze till her heartbeat slows — his, too.

“Here,” he says as the sun skates high above them. “With me.”

“Here,” she murmurs as the wind makes feathers of her hair. “With you.”

Stays close beside him. Garrons in-step cutting up the snow. Wolf loping back to circle them, then moving off up ahead again. Music of movement all around them: dog-sleds slashing and scraping, trumpet-song of the mammoths, coarse laughter of giants — Tormund’s brass-bell voice ringing loud above it all.

Makes her smile, that.

Their eyes meet as the horses lumber along a little faster. Jagged sweep of snow-capped stone to the east of them. Orell’s eagle a shrieking blue-grey blur soaring up above. Sheen of milk and honey on her cheeks — gold-edged paper, sunlight on an ice-lake, shimmer of glass — her smile as open as the sky. Look at each other, nod. Press the horses on faster. Snow flying up from blunt-edged hooves; sound of laughter on the air.

*

Half a day of hard riding. Another after that. Half and half again till their days are a blur of much the same: snow and stone and sun and steps and slopes — songs, too.

Sing as they ride. Ride as they sing. When the going is good the songs are merry to match. Tormund keeps a tune, slapping his palm to his thigh, shaking out his flames of beard as he sings loud enough to blow the snow off the mountaintops. They sing of bears and maidens, blades of black steel and kisses that taste of spring.

Thinks of it, then. Thinks of what he has been trying to keep to the edges of his skull, commit to the echoes of his ribs. Does no good. It is there as it always is: a falling star to match her hymn, a shock of storm-light ebbing to his soles — the memory of her skin beneath his lips. Her brow, his mouth; the air aglow around them.

Listens to the song spinning round him. Smiles to himself. Her skin did not taste of spring.

True, it was warm as the woodsmoke turning the air of Mance’s tent blue-grey as the eagle’s wings wheeling high above them. But it was the salt-ice breath billowing in his lungs, too. Tang of blood tarrying with the sweetness of honey-lit water.

Clear as ice, that skin — murmur of the cool calm pooling in the skull beneath it.

It was winter, that kiss. Carved of white winds and wolves keeping to the shadows of the trees. It was the north, the wild — the world in which they move and talk and spar and sleep and _breathe_ together.

Understands it now: the warmth — the _weight_ — of his feeling for her. Something deep. Something heavy as a stone dropped into a river. Something warm in his chest. Heart half-made of honey. Petals for lungs. Rush of it on his skin: ice-prickles pulling up as if the gods have leant down to sweep the fog from his eyes with their breath.

Cannot fight it. Not now. It is _there_ within him as it has always been: something alive, something he understands now — something he has no choice but to bow to. Mm, something he _wants_ to bow to. Rushes at him with the breath of the gods hot upon it.

Might be she feels it, too. Her eyes on his own as he turns his head toward her. Little bird-heads bobbing with the rhythm of the garrons. Her lips shaping the sounds of the joyful, pretty songs. Tremble dipping along the ivory-knife of her jaw to match the one shimmering along his own.

_Ask it_ , he thinks. _Ask me of the rhythms that move my heart. Ask me that and I will tell you all there is to know_ _._ _Ask it, edzèa, please_.

Thinks it. Prays it — but he does not say it. Sits his horse, broods as is his way. Waits for her. Tamps down the fire burning up his belly. Will _always_ wait for her.

*

Days rattle on. It is a swirl of sun and moon, the shimmer of the snow they cut up, leave marked by boot and paw and hoof.

Mountains ebb out eventually. High banks of sky take their place; haze of blue and grey resting on the hillsides. Orell’s eagle spins above them, banking aft and out and away. Varamyr sends his shadowcat to stalk the path ahead, his wolves to hunt for hares. Ghost stays close to the garrons.

Brush of treetops up ahead. Fold of free folk move to journey around it. Jon turns toward it, chucks up the mare soon as he hears her own cutting up the snow beside him. Wolf at their heels, Tormund’s gruff shout cracking like a brass-bell across the air. Lifts a hand from his reins, raises it to show he’s heard. Forest opening up to swallow the sky as they press into the trees.

Colour in her moonstone cheeks by the time they pull up. But she is breathing slow and soft. He smiles at that. She is cut from beaten metal now — same as he. Looks at him as she sits her horse, fire-blush brow raised, head tipped to one side. He lifts one back, then slides from the saddle, stoops to read the forest floor.

“Tormund said not to tarry.”

He does not look up. “That he did.”

“I think that means there is no time to look for pretty flowers to pick, Jon.”

Rolls his eyes at the smile in her voice. “I am not looking for pretty flowers.”

“No time for plain ones, either.”

Looks up at that, tries to fight his own smile. “No time for teasing — that, too.” Gestures to the trees around them. “We are here to hunt, _edzèa_.”

Something of the wolf about her as she listens, as she nods at him. Quiver of her lip. Little sun-burst flaring in her eyes. He is glad to see it. Means that strength is glowing white-hot within her. Strength — hunger, too. Both of them pricking at her skin, making her nostrils flare a little as she bends down beside him to read the forest floor.

Ghost stays in the glade with the garrons. Wolves move off in-step, shoulders low, hands resting on the knives in their belts. Bow slung across his shoulder. Song of the forest all around them, sunlight chasing away its shadows. Edge of a thatch of snow-heavy sentinels, echoes of an old game-trail. Follow it. Catches her arm as it comes into view: a little hart silver-grey as the stream it is drinking from.

“You see him?”

She nods. “I see him.”

“You remember your lesson back at the brook?”

Dips her head again. “I remember it.”

“Quiet now,” he murmurs as she takes the bow from him. “Time to breathe.” Flutter of his fingers along her arm as he corrects her form. “Like that. Good. Hold it.” Steadying her elbow, then slowly stepping back. “One, two — _now_.”

Arrow whistles through the air. Her aim is as true as it was back beside the slow-moving brook: flint-tips bedding into boles and branches. Finds flesh now. Deer trembles to its knees, spot of blood blooming just behind its elbow. Smoke of its last breath shuddering up into the quiet air. He runs his fingertips down the curve of her spine, swoops up to catch her forearm.

“All that time in your lonely tower, hmm?” he says quietly. “Scarlet thread. Stitches… makes for a steady hand.”

Feels her tremble beneath his fingers. “Beautiful beast.”

“He was — and you gave him a clean death, _edzèa_.”

Lowers the bow. Slowly. “I’ve never killed anything before.”

“You have killed something now.” Half-turns toward him at the quiet rumble of his voice; sea-ice eyes seeking his own. “You will kill other things as the days go on.” Takes the bow from her, then catches at her wrists. “But your hands will stay as they are now. Clean.” Rasps his thumbs across her upturned palms. “You see? _Clean_.”

“I see,” she says softly. “Jon, I _see_.”

*

They are bent over the still-warm body of the deer when she asks it.

“ _Edzèa_ ,” she says. “What does it mean?”

He shifts on his knee. “Little heart.” Twists his blood-stained fingers together, holds them up to show her. “Like the shape of the red fruit we gather in the mountain-meadows when the wind is warm.”

“That is what you call me?” breathes it. “Little heart?”

He nods: once, twice. “That is what you are.” Rush of the gods on his skin, in her eyes, in the glimmer of the sunlit snow. “Little heart that beats inside my own.”

They look at each other. The gods are in her gaze, he is sure of it: the light that tarries there, that dips and shimmers. The wolf is in there, too. Quiver of her lip. Little sun-burst in her eyes to blind the gods as they rush their breath within her, as they chase the wind through the trees. Ice and winter and the wild — something warmer, too.

“In another life, you’d have been a knight.”

Blinks at her: once, twice. “Because I can swing a sword?”

“Because your words make my heart ache.”

Frowns at that. “I do not want to make your heart ache.” Sets his flint-knife down. “I want to make it flutter.”

“Like a little bird?”

Edge of something in the sea-ice of her eyes. “No.” Shakes his head. “Like an eagle.” Swoops a palm the air between them, flutters his fingers. “High above the mountains.”

Clears now, that sharpness to the edges of her gaze. Rocks back on her haunches. Palms resting atop her thighs, spots of red on the backs of her hands. Thinks of the cave. Its water-song. Rune-marks of a rabbit’s blood some prayer to the old gods to keep those who haunted her far away from her dreams. Looks into her eyes now. Sees they are clear.

Breath rattles out from his throat.

It matters — the way she holds her head, the way she gazes at him straight and steady, the way she does not balk from blood. It _matters_. That’s all he knows.

“You have never asked it,” she says softly. “Not once.”

“Asked what?”

“My name,” she whispers. “Who I am.”

“I know who you are — name or no.”

A beat of silence: ripple of the stream, whistle of the wind through the trees. Their eyes unmoving in the gaze they share. Something warm in his chest. Heart half-made of honey; feels the beat of her own between his ribs.

“How?” she asks quietly.

“That is for the gods to know.”

“And my name?”

“That is for you to know,” he whispers. “You to share, _edzèa_.”

She says nothing, only nods: once, twice. Sea-ice bobbing on the water, the way her eyes stay fixed on his. Drowns in them a moment — then he looks off over her shoulder to where the white wolf waits, horses rounded-up in front of him. Gives a soft smile. Beckons him over.

Ties up the little hart to his mare; they fall in-step as they tread back through the trees.

No time to look for pretty flowers — still, she picks one. Presses it into his palm. A snowdrop: white as the wolf at their heels.

*

Picks some winter-berries for Wun Wun, too. Blackthorn, juniper, rosehips — the giant takes them from her, touches the crown of her head with a fingertip in thanks.

Tormund is not so gentle; pounds a palm to her back with a gleeful shout at the size of the deer she shot with her flint-tipped arrow. Quiet pride in Val’s grey eyes — a flicker of the same in Mance’s own as he gives a dip of his head and welcomes them into the mound of snowbear skins.

Fires lit in a circle round their ragged camp. Watchers in the hills. Wolves stalking moonlit snow. Eagle wheeling the ink-dark sky. It is enough. They are safe to eat and drink and sing and forget the woes of another day.

He watches her through the fireflame. Moonbeam and sunset, the way she and Val laugh together. Once or twice, she meets his gaze, holds it steady, glimmer of a smile turning up the corners of her lips. Once or twice. It is enough.

Quiet, the way they slip from Mance’s tent into their own when the moon is high and fire burning low.

Sleep a little closer now. Bodies curved round the flat stones circling the glowing embers, heads bent together.

He lays on his back, listens to the rise and fall of her breath: slow, steady — soft as the flutter of his heart to hear her clear the smoke from her throat, shift her head toward his on the fox-pelt pillow.

_It is yours_ , he thinks. _Your name to share. My heart to keep. Yours. That’s all I know_.

Thinks it. Prays it — but he does not say it. Lays on his back, listens to the rhythms of her quietly. Waits for her. Tamps down the sound burning low in his throat, the warmth glowing in his belly. Will _always_ wait for her.

“Sansa,” she whispers at last to the firelit darkness. “My name is Sansa.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it: Sansa’s moment ***** sighs/spins/swoons *****
> 
> POV from the named-woman-herself coming up next chapter. Might be a slight wait on said chapter as I am travelling about a fair bit in the next week or so and have a few boring real-life things going on; but I will try my best not to leave this lovely little world for too long — nor keep you lovelies waiting around too long, either! Till then, I hope our little name-moment will’ve raised a few smiles… love and light to all of you, my dears. ❤️
> 
> **p.s.** Jon’s endearment for Sansa — _**edzèa**_ — is another (beautiful!) word borrowed from the Tłı̨chǫ people of the Canadian Northwest Territories, meaning strawberries and/or little heart after their rough-hewn shape. I just **adore** it... 🍓


	13. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘His body is beaten metal: all hard edges. Long, clean lines. Muscle hard-packed beneath scar-flecked skin. It is a warrior’s body — and it makes her tremble. She is a wolf suddenly: hunger salt-hot on her tongue.’
> 
> a lullaby from a lifetime ago... [🌙](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTmatjyd4KM)

“Sansa.”

Feels like home, the weight of that word, the way it sounds coming from his lips. Her heart is a bird taking flight to hear him say it. Swoops and soars inside her chest; knots of bone, blooms of breath tangling in her throat.

All night, that bird has spread its wings. All night, its feather-beat has bounded through the valleys of her veins. All night, he has said her name. All night, she has lain awake to listen to it — to _him_.

Rises again now with the first light of the sun.

“Sansa?”

Turns her cheek against the fox-pelt pillow. “Hmm?”

“It’s good.”

“It’s good?”

“Your name,” he rumbles. “It’s… _good_.”

Little sigh of laughter shared between them. “A knight would call it pretty.” Smooths her cheek into the soft fox-fur. “A lord wouldn’t care. He would only look to see the weight of the dowry lurking behind it.”

“I am not a knight,” he says after a breath. “Nor a lord.”

“No.” Feels the skim of his skin against her own as their brows glance together. “You are something more.” Lashes swept down on her cheeks. “Something better.”

Half-turned onto her side, cheek still tucked into the fox-pelt pillow. But her fingers flutter free from beneath her furs. Slowly. Lifts a hand to lay it on his neck: thumb nestled beneath the crook of his jaw. Feels his pulse-point beat there; slow, steady — soft as the gaze he is keeping on her when she blinks open her eyes.

 _Mine_ , she thinks. _You are mine_.

Surprises her, that she even thinks it. No need to think what she can feel: the warmth — the _weight_ — of it, heavier than a thought has right to be. Breathes slowly, blinks slowly. He holds her gaze, sweeps a strand of ruby hair back behind her ear with a fingertip. Trails the same finger from her lobe up to the ridge of her cheekbone — like he is drawing shapes in the snow, fingerprint-figures on a damp, stone wall.

“Jon?”

Brushes his thumb the line of her nose. “Hmm?”

“It’s… _good_.”

 _This_ , she thinks. _You_.

A knight would press her to find a name for such flowery feelings. A lord would not care if she never spoke nor felt again. But Jon is not a knight. Not a lord. He is something more — something _better_.

He knows what it is she cannot find the words for; knows that there is a bird taking flight inside her chest, wingbeat sweeping all the sense behind her eyes to dust and ash hefted away by the wind.

He knows what she wants to say without her saying it.

She does not know how he knows — only that he does. Can see it in the shimmer of dawn-light catching at the edges of his eyes, the softening of his lips into a smile beneath his wild black beard.

Can _feel_ it, too.

Skim of their skin, brows pressed together. Flutter of his pulse-point beneath her thumb. Warmth of his breath ghosting her lips like a prayer, a promise — something light woven from the air, the clouds, the sunrays curled around their bodies.

Breathes it — _him_ — in. Slowly.

“It’s good,” he says quietly. “It’s good, _edzèa_.”

*

Gentle moments in a moving world, that is what her days have come to be. New shapes and sounds at every turn and twist. Mountain-valley left far behind. Ridges of stone instead. Forests, thatches of icy trees. Banks of sky resting on snow bone-white as the wolf at her side. A stream one sunrise, a river the next.

Moving — moving _always_. Garrons cutting up the snow with blunt-edged hooves. Shadowcat stalking the way ahead. Wolves running rings in the hills, hunting out hares that ripple like silver-grey flags as they flee. She has never moved through land like this — moving has never felt like this before.

 _Before_.

Jagged thorns, still; but for a heartbeat she lets them prick her. Before, moving was to flee as the hares rippling like silver-grey flags in the wind. From grey stones to blood-red halls. From a salt-sticky prow to a fist of ivory towers. Swaying scared on the backs of borrowed horses — ushered down a candlelit corridor toward a tree bone-white as the wolf at her side. A woman one sunrise, a wife the next.

Soft breath slipping between her teeth. Wonders if there will come a day when _that_ thorn will cease to sting. Frowns. Shakes her head. Once. Does not need to wonder it. _Knows_ it. Knows that one day she will pick it out from her soul, her skin — pinch it down to dust and ashes. Till then, she is strong enough to bear its sting, to lose a little blood every now and then to its needle-point prick.

Before, she would not think it possible. But she is not the woman she was before. Not a fledgling in a mockingbird’s nest. Not a wife. Not a lost girl in the snow. None of them. She is herself: _Sansa_ — and her soft skin is taut with her own strength.

Feels it even now, flexing beneath the sleeves of her furs. Muscle-ripple as she twists a little in the saddle, as her belly tightens and spine stays straight. Looks over her shoulder to find him staring west toward the hills. A rare thing — that his eyes are not resting on her, flickering to follow her every little rhythm.

A rare thing — a _welcome_ thing. Because it leaves her free to watch him a moment, track her gaze all the valleys of his body, his face, the frost of his breath on the icy air. Watch him — drink him in — like it is a little secret for her alone to keep. Like a red rose plucked from a champion’s hand and hidden beneath her pillow — only sweeter. Her sweet, secret stares: gentle moments in a moving world.

His profile against the sun-glare of the sky, furrowed brow as he reads the clouds. Lips bowed beneath the shadow of his wild black beard. Eyes the grey of mountains, stones — _home_ — as he settles them back upon her. They watch each other: sweet, secret stares no longer secret. For a moment, she feels a girl again — a laugh like honey sticking to her lips.

Tormund sighs like a bull bothered by flies in the summertime. “Steal him soon, _gǫh_ — will you?” Rolls his eyes to the gods in the sky. “Not one o’ us can stand this dance much longer.”

“Off with you, Tormund Tall-talker.”

Sansa looks at Jon as he says it. Rise of laughter from the riders all around them; but she can only see the grey of his eyes, the curve of his lips as he smiles. Half a breath — then they are laughing, too.

*

Laughing still as they sit to share the last of the deer in Mance’s tent.

Fades away sharply as Dalla starts to pant and shriek. Hand on her belly, she reels back into the furs scattered across the floor. Moans her pain up at the bit of moonlight streaming in through the flute in the roof: mouth wide, face knotted with fury.

 _Howl_ , thinks Sansa suddenly. _Howl_.

But Jon is as much a blur to her as that memory now. There is no time for either — not with Dalla rolling on her haunches, white teeth bared in another moonlit shriek. On her knees beside her now, throwing out some shout for fire-warmed water, reeds.

“Val,” pants Dalla. “Where is Val?”

“Hunting,” murmurs Sten.

“In the hills,” says Tormund. “We will fetch her.”

Dalla screws her face up in another scream. “Out! All of you, out!” Flails a grip at Sansa’s hand, stares at her with rain-damp eyes. “Not you, _åekô_ — you stay. You _stay_ … please.” Tight-teeth grimace. “Please!”

“I am here,” breathes it. “I will stay.”

Cold air swirling up and in as the others bundle out from the mound of snowbear skins. Water in a pot over the fire; reeds fished out from Val’s pack. Glides round the tent, gathering it all up. Lifts her eyes to the flute of moonlight in the roof before she turns back to Dalla — sends up a little prayer to the old gods that fades away to a lullaby: something soft and sweet her mother sang to her a lifetime ago.

Fingers fluttering together as she sings it at Dalla’s side, smooths back tawny hair, scrapes up furs. Looks at them a moment: her hands on Dalla’s sweat-damp skin.

Hands that have done a thousand things. Stitched scarlet thread, hefted a shield carved of weirwood. Run over ribs bruised by fists thrown by a white-cloaked knight. Primed a bow-string, picked winter-berries for a giant. Hands that have taken life. Hands that will help now to _give_ it. Her hands — _her_ hands.

“ _Åekô_ ,” murmurs it. Does not know what it means; only that it feels right to say it. “ _Åekô_ , I am here… I am here with you.”

Dalla’s fingers twined between her own now. Moans cut up by moonlight. Water bubbling over the fire. A lullaby on her lips: soft and sweet as the memory of her mother singing it to her before — _before_. Does not feel like a thorn, though. Not now. Not here. Feels like something else: a prayer — a promise that everything will be all right.

*

Woodsmoke and warm blood, the smell of each heavy in her nose.

Stumbles out of the tent, sways on her feet till she grips at the mound of snowbear skins and steadies herself. A hand at her elbow. Turns toward it, leans into it.

“I would know your name to thank you properly, my lady.”

Does not look at the man who props her up. Gazes at the sky above instead: shimmer of dawn-light at its very edges. Breathes. Slowly.

Lets him lower them both to the snow beside the tent. Sinks her hands into it, ice-cool sting to clean the blood from her skin. Rasps her palms together, remembers Jon’s words as she does so — feels a smile flicker despite the weariness that lays its ache upon her lips.

Clears her throat. “I think you know my name.”

“Aye,” says Mance evenly. “It is not _lost_ nor _girl_. It is a pretty name, the one your lady mother gave you — shame you do not use it.”

Soft sigh to sift the smoke from her nose. “Pretty name, pretty face.” Wraps her stinging hands around her knees. “That’s all men ever choose to see.”

“I’ve seen the sharpness at your edges, my lady.” Points a finger toward the belt banding her hips, the tip of the flint-knife slipped into its leather. “You’re not some stupid little southron skirt who knows only how to scrape and simper. There is more to you than the honey of your smile, the fire of your hair.”

Turns toward him. “I — ”

“Look like your mother did half a lifetime ago — but I see your father in you, too.” Fleeting touch of his thumb to her chin as they look at each other. “Ah — just _there_ in your eyes alive as day. Winter storm in their depths… all the strength of one behind them.” Quirk of his brow over that flinty gaze. “Is that what you are, my lady? A winter storm come to shake my little kingdom to pieces?”

“Your little kingdom feels more a home to me now than the grey walls I was born within.” A reedy breath. “I have no desire to see it fall to pieces.”

Surprises her, that she says it — that she even thinks it. If it surprises him, too, he does not show it. Brow settles back over that flinty gaze; but there is a smile on his lips softer than would usually grace those sharp-hinged cheeks.

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I think you will do well in this little kingdom, Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

Lifts himself up from the snow; takes her hand to raise her, too. Stand and sway on their feet for a heartbeat before he makes move to slot past her into the tent. She catches his arm, draws her shoulders straight as he looks back at her. Borrows a bit of fire from her hair, sets it into the tones of her voice.

“You are forgetting why you wanted my name in the first place, Mance Rayder.”

He smiles at that: something deep-felt, sun-warmed. “My lady tells it true.” Puts a hand to his heart, sweeps a bow that makes her smile, too. “Thank you.”

*

Finds Jon in the tent they share, feeding sticks to the fire. He is a little hazy to her eyes, flickers of tiredness making the edges of him swim and shimmer like the flames he is stoking. Watches them dance as he moves slowly toward her, catches something of what he is saying.

“Not cold.” Shakes her head even as her teeth chatter. “Just a little — ”

Back of his hand brushing her brow. “Not cold, hmm? I see you shiver.” Clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Lost girl in the snow, the way you shiver.” Hand sweeping down from her brow to her elbow. “Come here, _edzèa_.”

“The babe,” breathes a feeble protest. “How is — ”

“Dalla’s babe is drunk on milk.” Hands on both her elbows now, holding her steady as she sways. “He is safe and warm — not like you.” Fingers running down to catch at her hands: cool weave of her palms between his own. “Made of snow and ice.” Blows a little breath on their joined hands, then shrugs out of one of his furs. “Put this on.” Drapes it over her shoulders, finds the hem of another. “Hmm — this, too.”

Another fur put across her shoulders. Bids her sit in the sleeping-skins they share, fusses with a bone-cup of broth to get it warm over the fire. Watches him as he watches the flames, the broth. A rare thing — that his eyes are not resting on her. Rare. Welcome, too. Watches him — drinks him in — like he is a little secret for her alone to keep.

Bare to his waist, furs stripped away resting on her shoulders.

There is a taste on her tongue to watch him so in the firelight. Not the metallic tang of fear to see a man like this, like _before_. Something else. Something darker — deeper.

His body is beaten metal: all hard edges. Long, clean lines. Muscle hard-packed beneath scar-flecked skin. It is a warrior’s body — and it makes her tremble. She is a wolf suddenly: hunger salt-hot on her tongue.

Little sound low in her throat to feel it — to _taste_ it.

Hunger, that is what it is. Not fear. No. _Hunger_.

Feels it surge as he bends closer to the fire. Muscles flickering beneath his skin like storm-light lancing across the sky. His profile against the sunset flames, furrowed brow as he swirls the broth round the bone-cup. Lips bowed beneath the shadow of his wild black beard. Eyes the grey of mountains, stones — _home_ — as he turns back toward her. Reedy little breath ebbing out between her lips to meet his gaze.

They watch each other: sweet, secret stares no longer secret. Mm, no longer quite so sweet. Salt-hot now — burning bright as the hunger on her tongue. Swallows thickly, takes the bone-cup he is holding out to her.

“Mance said the babe got stuck.” Sits close beside her in the soft banks of their sleeping-skins. “That you pulled him free.”

Flexes her fingers on the bone-cup of broth. “I just wanted to help. Her. Him.”

“You did more than help,” he rumbles. “You saved him, Sansa.” Takes his time with that word: rolls it round his mouth like an apple-seed. “Dalla, too.”

Puts the cup down. “She’s all right?”

“She is good.” Catches up her hand, lays it to his cheek; jolts back in mock-shock at how cool her skin is. “You? Not so good.”

Rolls her eyes even as her jaw rattles. “I’m fine.”

“I see you shiver,” he says softly. “Still.” Leans into the hand he has on her cheek, closes her eyes. “Hmm.” Lets him rumble to himself as he lays them back into the furs. Feels the beat of his heart against her cheek: slow, steady — soft as the timbre of his throat. “Aye, sleep a little — when you wake I will take you somewhere warm.”

Smooths her cheek into his salt-hot skin. “Somewhere warm in the lands of always winter?”

“No time for teasing,” he rumbles — but she can hear the smile in his voice. “Sleep now… soon you will be warm, _edzèa_.”

 _Little heart_ , she thinks as the rhythm of his blood rushes beneath her cheek: slow, steady — soft as the way he says her name. _Little heart that beats inside my own_ …

Feels like home, the weight of that word, the way it sounds coming from his lips.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to keep things pretty fluid and ever-flowing as I think sometimes tight timings can bog down stories and make writing a tad trickier… but in this case, Dalla’s pregnancy always served as a little time-indicator for me when initially planning the vagaries of my plot-points: three months pregnant (give or take) when Sansa first met her in Mance’s tent all those moons ago. For those who may be wondering exactly how long Sansa has been in the wild, then, Dalla’s labour provides an organic answer! I want Sansa to feel embedded within this wildling world by the time she reaches the North… six months and counting feels about _right_ to me. Hope it feels right for you, too!
> 
> Meanwhile, the slow burn smoulders on. But we are heating up — bit by bit, beat by beat. Next chapter will seem — both literally and figuratively — a little warmer than those that have come before… may (again) be a slight wait on it: bloody life! Hope you are still enjoying this journey, honeys — I am still enjoying weaving it so very much. ❤️
> 
>  **p.s.** term of endearment — **_åekô_** — used in the Sansa/Dalla scene is another( **!** ) word borrowed from the Tłı̨chǫ people of the Canadian Northwest Territories. It means (literally) something sweet … refitted as ‘sweet one’ in this context to match our lemon-cake, sweetheart queen to the max! 🍋 _also_ left a little moodboard above spanning this chapter and the last; I make so many of the damn things when writing this world that I thought I may as well share it — hope it doesn’t clash with your own lovely imagines too much! What a monster end-note, argh sorry! I shall stop warbling on now; hope you have a **lovely** Sunday, my sweets!


	14. Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘It falls away: that woollen shift from her life before. Falls away. Fades into the water. Leaves only her — _Sansa_ — bare in the pale light of the sun...’
> 
> wasn’t going to post today but the real world is pretty dark right now, isn’t it? I just wanted to let a little bit of light shine in _this_ world that we weave and orbit together… just for a little while. Well then, time to get cosy, eh? 🔥

Light washing behind his eyes. Blinks them open: once, twice. Frowns to see what it is — the dawn-tides come far too soon.

Ache low in his back, tendon straining taut in his neck. Shifts his spine a little. Murmur stops him — little thread of breath salt-hot against the skin of his chest. Looks down. Realises, remembers. Relives it all. Woodsmoke and warm blood; an ice-cool palm woven between his own.

“Sansa.”

Utters it low as the ache in his bones. Feels it settle there: buried down between blood and breath and skin and sinew — bone-deep.

Her name — her _name_ pressed close to his heart as her cheek to his chest.

Lax in the cradle of his arms, every line of her body some softened slip of stone poured into the mountain-range of his own body. Fused together — _gently_. Her lips peppering those little threads of salt-hot breath against his skin. Point of her knee flexed over his thigh. His fingers lost in the copper crown of her hair.

Dawn-tides lapping at her shoulders now. Watches quietly as a feather of light ruffles upward, brushes along her cheekbone. Little wash of gold. Tangles with her down-swept lashes, peeks up beneath her lids. He lies very still, cradles her quiet as he has all night — but she is stirring now. Slowly.

“Sansa,” he rumbles very softly. “Hmm… _Sansa_.”

Open as the sky, the smile she gifts him half a heartbeat later. Like something hung in amber, the way it spreads slowly across her honey-lit cheeks. Like the dawn-tides washing them in golden light, the way it burrows between the crooks of his ribs, sits there, _stays_ there — bone-deep.

*

Does not shift from her face, that sunlit smile. Glimmers and dips and weaves as rays of light are like to do — but it does not fade. Ebbs there: a flicker in her cheek, a brief flash of pearl-nipped lips the colour of a rosebud. Wants to put his thumb to it. Unfurl it — petal by petal — till the snow at their feet is limned in that smile’s gentle glow.

Camp is quiet as they cut a path through it. Babes drunk on mother’s milk; wolves lowing softly in the hills. Quiet. Closes his eyes a moment, lets the swell of it wash over him.

Opens them to find her striding ahead of him, stopping at the crest of a hilltop, turning back to stare at him as he sways on his feet. Damp colours: blues, greys, whites — red hair a rose-flare in the early sun. Meets her eyes. Smiles as he thinks of her then, now — his lost girl, his warrior-queen… his _Sansa_. Smile grows stupid on his face; but he does not care. Starts back up toward her.

Feels the heat of her as he crests the hilltop, as she steps into his side. Close as she lay in the cradle of his arms as the dawn-tides rose around them; curve of her hip begging for his fingers to rest upon it. Flexes them instead. Finds a grip on the icy air, flutters it free to point deeper into the hills.

“Somewhere warm,” she says quietly. “Here?”

Turns to look at her. Wonders how it is that the snow is still not limned by the same rose-petal glow as his heart. Wonders how it is that her smile is carved of all the colours around them: sunrise and snow-heavy skies and the bone-deep glimmer of golden warmth burrowed between the crooks of his ribs. Wonders at it — at _her_.

“You will see, _edzèa_.” Half a shrug even as he fights to keep the breath in his lungs. “Somewhere warm. Here in the lands of always winter. You’ll see.” Holds out his hand to her; fingers tight-woven together in half a breath. “Sansa, you will _see_.”

Lays her palm to his cheek. Looks into his eyes: measured, the light that lingers in her own. Gaze at each other as the wind whips up a little around their hilltop, snatches at their furs with flighty fingers, makes feathers of their hair. Her thumb a steady rasp across the blackthorn-thatch of his beard; her brow a swallow dancing to its nest as she touches it to his for half a heartbeat.

Draws back — watches him as he watches her: smile warm on both their lips.

“I see,” she says softly. “Jon, I _see_.”

*

It is something of the hunt, the feeling that settles in his belly as he follows her into the trees. Dark on his tongue: salt-hot. Like red meat charred in a cedarwood flame, like the grit of smoky soot — like blood.

Frowns at himself to feel it. He should not — _cannot_ — be hungry. Not now, not yet. He made a promise after all. To follow her, obey her in everything. To tell her of his heart — if and when she asked to know its rhythms. Hunger was not a part of that. It sits apart still — as it should, as it always will if that is where she wants it to be.

But for a moment in the sunlit trees, he is a man. Lets himself be one — _has_ to — no matter the bitter taste it burns in his belly, no matter the frown it smoulders across his brow. Just a man. Mm, a man who drinks in every bit of her. Honey-lit smile and rose-flare hair. The curves of her hips shaping up the furs that drape her body. Line of her throat like a burst of moonlight as she turns to quirk a brow at him.

“It is warm?” she asks.

“Hmm.”

Rumble in his throat is all he can give. Words would crack and blister behind his smile. She would hear the pant of want — raise her hackles like the wolf she is. All he can do is breathe: in, out, in. Exhales through his nose, fog of silver-grey smoke rushing up to join the steam that floats above the pool she stands beside.

She is frowning down at it dubiously. He fights to focus his eyes, breath tangling in his throat as heat beats through his blood, drifts up with the ice of the air.

For a moment she looks like she did back beside the slow-moving brook: tongue caught between her teeth as they locked shields, as her iron sword clipped at his chin. Strong and fire-haired and like a goddess in the sunlight. Not a lost girl. A warrior-queen. He can breathe again suddenly — _see_ again suddenly.

“Put your hand out,” he rumbles at last. “Feel the air.”

Moon-pale fingers twisting at the steam now. “It _is_ warm.” Spark of wonder in her voice, flare of joy bright as firelight: the look she turns on him. “Jon, it’s warm!”

“Aye,” he says through a smile broad as the mountain-valley long left behind them. “The air is warm — the water, too.”

Fingers rising to her collar now. “We can swim?”

“Hmm.” Does not show the surprise that blooms behind his eyes as she fumbles with the furs about her shoulders — only nods, hides the smile growing wider on his cheeks to see the first slip of skin bared to the sunlight. “We can swim, _edzèa_.”

Looks up from unwinding the belt around her hips. “You first.”

Open as the sky, the smile shimmering still on those pearl-nipped lips. Red as a rosebud — no need for a thumb to unfurl it. Petal by petal, it spreads till everything seems honeyed by its light. Steals all the warmth from the water, all the breath from his lungs.

*

Puts her feet in first, dabbles them in the water from where she sits atop his furs at the pool’s edge. He is sunk to his shoulders in front of her. Spreads his fingers beneath the surface, then washes them up with the water that ebbs over the top of her moon-pale foot. Slots a grip round her ankle, rasps his thumb gently over the notch of bone.

“It’s good?”

Nods at him: once, twice. “It’s good.”

“Stone baths before, hmm?” Keeps his voice soft as his fingertips against her skin. “Lemons. Roses. Copper tubs in front of a fire.” Flash of something in her eyes; but it fades swift as it appeared as his thumb rasps slow and steady. “Now a pool behind the trees.”

Leans a little from her perch, hand swooping to cup his chin. “It’s good.” 

Wordless, the look that passes between them. It is something forged from a bone-deep place: the understanding resting heavy in both their hearts. What use are words when breath and blood-beat say too much already?

His hand travels up from her ankle, slots a grip onto her waist. She pushes up away from the edge of the pool as he pulls her in toward him. Melts against him, a fire-bruise painting her cheek as the steam cloaks her in its kiss. Water soaks into the cloth that drapes her body: a woollen shift from her life before. But he feels her still against him — bare as the beauty of her blue-wide eyes drunk on the water’s heat.

Float together, glide of her smooth shin against the line of his thigh. Hands resting on his shoulders, fingers tangled in the ink-dark curls at the nape of his neck. Birdsong somewhere in the trees. Trickle of the tide lapping at the stones. Light of the sun skating through the sentinels, turning the snow around them a hundred shades of milk and honey.

“ _Edzèa_ ,” breathes it. “It’s good?”

 _This_ , he means. _My hands. My body. My skin against your own_.

Hears the breath hitch in her throat as she nods: once, twice. He nods back. Flicker of laughter in her damp eyes: little bird-heads bobbing. There is a tear on her cheek, glittering like a raindrop even as she smiles. He leans forward. Puts his mouth to it, sweeps up the salt of it with his lips.

Low little sound: half-sob, half-moan. He keeps his mouth on her cheek, lets her sing her storm into the sky over his shoulder. Waits. Leans back as she puts a hand gently to his chest, lets her chase him away a little. No tears now — only clear light in her cool eyes, a strength to the edges of her face, the pale beauty of her jaw, the moon-pale fingers she lifts to pull the laces free at her throat.

It falls away: that woollen shift from her life before. Falls away. Fades into the water. Leaves only her — _Sansa_ — bare in the pale light of the sun. 

“My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.” Her voice drifts out across the eddies of the pool. “It isn’t as pretty as it used to be.”

Finds his voice somewhere in his chest. “A warrior’s skin is not meant to be pretty.” Twists his shoulder so the light catches at the scars etched upon it. “You see?”

“I see,” she says softly. “Jon, I _see_.”

Their fingers weave together. He draws her closer through the water, lets her guide his hand to rest on her waist. Notches her ribs like arrows between his fingers, rasps his thumb over a scar blazing like a scarlet star across the milky sky of her skin.

Breathes through his nose, tries to tamp down the fire burning in his blood — the fury at the man who left such a mark on his warrior-queen. Knows no man will ever leave a mark on her again. Looks into her eyes. Breathes. Slowly.

“He hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

A beat of quiet. “Knives. Fists.”

“These marks — from him?”

“Yes.”

Traces a scarlet star-burst all the way up to her collarbone. “You were afraid?”

“I was afraid.” Her ribs expand in his palm as she takes a breath. “But I am not afraid now, Jon.” Tilt of her head as he sinks his mouth to chase away the heat of his fingers from her neck. “I am here with you.”

Lips resting on her skin as he breathes the scent of her. “You are here with me.” Low and soft, voice curling from his throat like the fire — _fury_ — burning slowly down to embers in his blood. “Wherever we may go, you are always here — ”

His words are gone: snatched up and swallowed by something warm and good as the bone-deep ache between the crooks of his ribs. The sound he makes is muffled. Everything is muffled — like something hung in amber, the way he roves toward some distant, wordless understanding. 

“Sansa,” he manages to grit out. “ _Sansa_.”

But his words are swept away again. Her mouth on his own: tongue, teeth — taste of the hunt turning his blood salt-hot as the hunger in his belly. That ribbon of a moan somewhere low in her throat. Threads out to wrap around him till he feels half-choked by it. Surges toward it even so — would let her steal his very breath again and again if that is what she wanted. Mm, would give it to her freely, lay it like a gift at her feet: his breath, his bones, his blood — his very heartbeat.

*

Float together a while as the winter sun skates high into the sky above them. Black-knife shadows stretching from the trees, chasing shadows across the water. She follows them with her fingers over the surface of the pool, traces the eddies they leave on his skin.

That rosebud is burst into bloom. Kiss-bruised, same colour as the damp hair that falls around her shoulders like a cloak of fire. Singes up his cheeks when she shakes it out, bends her face close to his again. Ruby rings round his fingers: more treasure than he can ever hope to hold.

“Jon,” she murmurs. “Jon?”

Blinks at her as if he is waking from a dream — might be he is a little drunk on the taste of her. “Aye?”

“He hurt me in other ways, too.” Thread of her voice at his ear as she rests her cheek against his own. “Pushed me down onto a bed. Tore away my gown.”

Flicker of fury working back into his blood; but he keeps his fingers a steady sweep up and down her spine. “You did not want him?”

“No — _never_.” Smooths her cheek as if she could disappear into his skin. “I didn’t want him inside me. I sat in scalding water afterwards. I cried. Then I went cold. Numb.” Shiver of a breath as she trembles in his arms. “I did not feel anything after that — not for a long time.”

Rests his palm between her shoulder-blades now, the other between her breasts. “I feel you.” Low and soft, smoke from a fire: the way her heart beats against his hand. “You are warm.” Trails his fingers up to cradle her cheek, level her face with his own. She looks at him. “There are embers in your eyes, not tears.” He looks at her. “You are blood and bone and breath.” Hands framing her face, thumbs on her cheeks. “Here, now — I feel you.”

“You _see_ me, too.” Barely whispers it. “I felt it that day beside the river. I felt it in my fever-dreams. I have felt it every moment that I have spent at your side.” Fingers swooping up to circle his wrists. “You see me. You _know_ me. I do not know how or why… but — but you are _mine_ , Jon.” Grip tightening as she trembles. “As I am yours.”

Kiss that lands light as a snowflake. Cool as one. Clear as ice. Carved of white winds and wolves keeping to the shadows of the trees around them. The north, the wild — the world in which they move and talk and spar and sleep and _breathe_ together. Winter. Mm, _winter_ — but there is warmth to it, too. A fire banked high to keep away the night-frost. Furs on the ground. Stars up above. _Shelter as we go_ … An apple in the mountains. Thousand looks, half a hundred memories. Hounds and wolves and dreams. A stranger by the river-bend — the little heart that beats inside his own.

“Lost girl in the snow,” he breathes against her lips. “Like that frostfire put by the gods into the glade.” Drags his nose against her own, catches another glancing kiss. “Mine to find.” Hand at her nape, hooking a gentle grip in her hair till she is staring straight into the ink of his eyes. “Mine to keep — if you wish it.”

“I wish it.”

Eagle swooping high in his chest. “You swear it?”

“I swear it.” Rises up in the circle of his arms like a sea-wave, ebbs all around him till all he wants is to dip and dive and drown. “With all I am, I swear it.”

Lets her wash over him. Her lips, her skin. The glide of her beneath the water. Keeps his hips away; his hands on her face, in her hair. Because it is not hunger that makes him warm, not the want to chase it that burns salt-hot in his blood. Not now, not yet. It is something else, something deeper. Something set alight by kisses. Something that smoulders between the crooks of his ribs: _her_. Just her. Mm, the way she sits inside him like a breath, an ache — bone-deep.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little longer than I intended it to be. Few kisses amongst the ripples of a pool. No sexy-time yet, sorry… but I _do_ envisage the slow burn simmering up a little more in the next two or three chapters. Till then, hope you are all as well as you can be, my loves. ❤️  
>  **p.s.** a [link](https://charmtion.tumblr.com/post/612587174435717120/it-falls-away-that-woollen-shift-from-her-life) to a **stunning** gif-set on tumblr that seems _made_ for this chapter. It is perfect! Okay. Bye now, honeys — and please take care of yourselves. 🌻


	15. Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘A beat of quiet: creak of the wind against the tent, rustle of furs — rasp of red-warm hair as she lowers her mouth to his shoulder, presses a kiss there.’
> 
> hate, hate, _hate_ posting on odd-number-dates for no rational reason except my own eccentricities... **but** I felt bad about the delay between this chapter and the last — so here we are, honeys; please enjoy! 🌻

Would stay in the water till the moon waxed and waned and faded forever. Would stay here always — gladly.

Float a while together, that much is true. Trees darkening as honey light turns to silver, as the sun gives up its grip on the sky. Skin slippery as the stones at the pool’s edge. Little threads of frost worked into the fire of her hair. First tremble of her jaw — sets his mind that it is time to go, however much he would like to stay.

Warms her. Fire. Flat palms blazing his heat along her spine. Furs heaped up to her chin. His furs — _hers_ now, too. Takes his breath to wonder it as he watches her sleep in the sealskin tent they share. _His_ — as he is hers. Skin. Scars. Body. Heart. All of it hers to command. Mm — his to cradle.

Trails a fingertip across her brow, cannot help it. Slides back a strand of ruby hair still damp from the springs; rasps his thumb gently till the furrow between her eyes smooths out. Tide-lines in the sand. Ebb and flow. Thinks of that woollen shift from her life before — weighed down by water, melting away, setting her skin free to glow in the sunlight.

“ _Edzèa_.”

Leans low. Chases his fingertip, his thumb away from her brow. Sets his lips there instead: the gentlest touch of his mouth to her skin before he presses his brow lightly to her own. Closes his eyes. Breathes her in. Feels her stir.

“Quiet now,” he rumbles. “I’m here.”

Thumb finds a cradle. Apple of her cheek — lifted as it would in that sunlit smile she gifts him on days that are good. But that cannot be; she is in the dead of dreams. A place most like to make her scream, not smile. Flicker of fury back in his blood to think of the man who haunts all the happiness from those dreams, that place.

“I am here.”

Croons it to her: low, soft — but there is no need.

She does not stir for want of soothing. There are no sounds trembling on her tongue. No cries for her brothers. Screams renting their ashes into the wind. None of that. Her breath is soft, easy, flowing. Like the slow-moving brook they sparred beside a lifetime ago. Like the warm water that lapped at his scars as she bared her own to him.

Blinks: once, twice — opens his eyes to find hers still closed.

Mm, opens his eyes to find that she is smiling as she sleeps.

*

Nurses it all through the dawn: that little smile seeped in sleep. Keeps it for himself. A memory, a token — a treasure plucked up from the long grasses and stowed safely inside his heart. Something precious as the first seed sown in the soil when the wind is warm. Little water, little light — something that will grow and give life. Mm, so he nurses it. _Nurtures_ it. Knows it is what he must do.

Leaves her sleeping. Steps out of the tent to find a few logs to set beneath his kindling. One or two. Enough to build the fire, make the air warm for her to wake to. Hunts through the snow, cuts a path toward the edges of the trees.

Wolf at his heels, sun at his back, smile high in his chest — crooked close to his heart. Feels it unfurl there, spread like honey between his ribs. A rose, might be. Blooming right there above his belly. Petal by petal till he finds he is smiling, too. Lovesick fool grinning at the trees. But he doesn’t mind. How can he when it is her sunlight that makes his own smile glow?

Finds his firewood. One or two logs. It is enough. Whistles to the wolf, starts back through the trees. Little lightness in his step, breath eagle-height in his lungs: soaring, searing a pathway up as smoke to the sky. Smiles at that, too.

Hears it soon as he meets the edges of the camp. Laughter: coarse, thick. Jostling. Boys at play. Shakes his head, rolls his eyes, makes to ignore it — but something sharp lodges in his gut. Clattering. Hears it: soft and low. The smile melts from his lips. Falls — like a tumble of stones down a cliff, a river of snow wiping a mountainside clean.

“Go.”

But he does not need to say it; the wolf is halfway bound back to the tent already. Watches him go: a lithe, white shadow cut from moonlight. Takes a deep, steadying breath — then follows at his heels, some dark fury stoking demons in his blood.

*

Group of them. Springing back as Ghost bares his teeth, sidesteps till he is at the tent. Lowers his shoulders there before it: some creature carved of stone and white winds — timeless as he is terrifying. Jon feels more than a bit of the same wildness bandying with the demons in his blood now. A wolf, might be — howling to get out.

“Rattleshirt.”

Brisk, sharp: his voice rings out over the sleeping camp. Flexes his fists at his sides, firewood dropping to the snow at his feet. Takes a step, chases up the echoes of his first growl.

“Move off.” Can feel the tendon straining in his neck; blood-beat whirling a storm beneath his ear. “Hmm? Move _off_ — or you’ll never move again.”

Clattering: soft and low. “Lord o’ Bones to you, boy.” Glint of yellow eyes through the giant’s skull-helm. “Why should we move off? Only come to do Mance’s bidding.”

“Bidding.” Jon sketches up a brow, tries not to snarl. “What bidding?”

Rattleshirt shrugs: bearclaws clanking. “Message for the girl.”

“Need a score of men for a message, hmm?” Jerks his chin to the boys who stand still, unlaughing now. “You are lying.”

Those yellow eyes: narrowing to a smirk. “Fucked her yet?”

Gets a fist to the belly for his trouble. Rattleshirt goes down, comes back up with a knife in his hand. Jon laughs to see it — wolf in his blood howls louder, rips its mouth open in a snarl to shake the trees. Boys scatter. It is just three now: two wolves, a little man rattling in his bone-shirt.

“Ask it again.” Jon lands another blow, watches the bruise bloom beneath the edge of the giant’s skull-helm. “Go on — _ask_ it.” Hands up beneath Rattleshirt’s chin, lifting him up from the snow to shout into his face. “Ask it and let me kill you.” Lets him go; clatter of bones as he crashes back to the ground. “What are you waiting for? Hmm? _Ask_ it.”

But the Lord of Bones lays silent. Ribs expanding between Jon’s knees as they both suck in breaths deep enough to burn their lungs. Knife flung somewhere, lost to the snow. Feels an ache up on his shoulder. Puts his hand to it. Fingertips come away: blood-red. Wolf turns wild in his veins again.

Lands another punch. Hears the crack of bone beneath his fist, bunches up to throw — 

“Jon? _Jon_.”

At this he turns. Her voice: sleep-ragged as the fur tossed over her naked shoulders. Blinking at him, one hand raised to shade the sun from her eyes. Smiling, still.

Leaves his kill half-winded in the snow.

Gets up — goes to her.

*

“Bit of blood, that’s all.”

Huff of breath; sea-ice glare as she pulls at his furs. “Take this off. Let me look.” Another huff as he stares at her. “ _Now_ , Jon.”

“It’s good?”

Voice is muffled. Furs caught over his head as he feels her hands fly to his shoulder. Prod gently with her fingertips. He doesn’t wince. Just makes a grumble: soft, inquisitive.

“No,” she answers. “It is _not_ good.”

“You can sew it up?”

“I need a finer needle.” Fingertips tapping on his shoulder, then stilling. “Wait.”

Listens to her move about the sealskin tent they share. Rustle through their bed of furs, dig into her pack. Feels the warmth of her back beside him before he hears her closeness: that little huff-sigh of breath, the wick of her tongue to wet the thread, the crack of the bone-needle as she holds it between her teeth.

“Get those furs off your head.”

Does as he is bid. Gazes up at her. She is on her knees, craning up over him, dipping the threaded needle from her teeth. Barely feels the sting of it pricking into his skin, the taut pull binding up his wound.

Works in that swift, steady way of hers. Wishes he could watch her hands. Those moon-pale fingers moving, weaving, healing. Clears his throat.

“I — ”

But she shakes her head at him. “I have my knife. My lessons.” Soft, the way she says it — but there is an edge to her eyes that makes him smile. “I would have been — ”

“I know,” he rumbles. “You would have been fine, _edzèa_. You are strong. Quick.” Tilts his head, shows her his smile. “Lord o’ Bones would’ve laid dead at your feet.” Catches up her free hand, binds it to his lips. “But I am a warrior — and I will keep my promise to protect you. Back in the mountains. Here at home. Wherever we may go.” Closes his eyes. “Always.”

A beat of quiet: creak of the wind against the tent, rustle of furs — rasp of red-warm hair as she lowers her mouth to his shoulder, presses a kiss there. 

Leans his head against her own. Keeps his eyes closed, shoulder singing beneath the warmth of her lips. Scratch of the needle against his chest as she loops her arms around him. But he doesn’t mind. Would take the sting of a thousand needle-points to feel her wrapped warm around him. Would take it always — gladly.

*

Finds Mance staring down at the bloodstain in the snow. Lifts a brow when Jon steps out to stand beside him, sharp brown eyes weary as his voice.

“Jon…”

Cuts him off. “Send that man to my tent again and I will kill him.” Widens his eyes, hulks his face forward: makes clear his message. “Hear me, Mance? Hear me?”

“Jon — ”

“I mean it, Mance.”

Sharp brown eyes rolling softer. “I didn’t send him.”

“Then why was he here?”

Palms upturned as he shrugs. “Overheard my plans.” Scuffs his boot across the bloodstain, shakes clean snow over it. “Carried them here to curry favour with me, probably.” Looks at Jon. Smiles. “Didn’t work, did it?”

“Plans?”

“For Sansa’s ears,” says Mance. “Not yours.”

Jon scowls at his sharp-hinged smile. “One and the same.” Points to where she sits lit by sunset, stringing a bow beside the wolf. “Her ears. Mine.”

“Very pretty,” comes that brass-bell voice. “Tell me, Mance — when did Jon the Boy become Jon the Bard?”

Staggers forward as a great flame-haired weight bulls into his back. “Off with you, Tormund Tall-talker.” Growling as he is knocked off his feet – laughing, too. “Ow! You fucking oaf.”

“Jon the Bard,” grunts Tormund in a sing-song tone. “Though we all know it’s Jon the Bride you hope to be.” Ruffs a hand through ink-dark hair, laughing loud enough to shake the snow from the mountaintops. “Hmm? That right, lad?”

“Enough,” says Mance with a sigh. “ _Both_ of you.”

They look at the tangle they have made in the snow. Limbs and half-strength punches thrown. Blood on Jon’s lip. Tormund’s eye showing very blue through the bruise darkening the skin around it. Both laughing. Fade swift to silence as a huff of breath sounds above them. Looks up. Finds that sea-ice glare narrowed down at him.

“If you have torn those stitches, Jon — _if_ you have torn those _stitches_ …”

Leaves her threat empty as the air around them. But it is enough. Holds up his hands: palms out, as peace-keeping a gesture as he can make it. Tormund laughs himself hoarse.

“My little _gǫh_ growls fiercer than any wolf.” Tears gather at the corners of his blue eyes, tremble down his laughing cheeks. “Has you by the throat, Jon the Boy — as well as stealing away your heart.”

She smiles at that. “Tormund Tall-talker tells it true — for once.”

Laughter rings back into the empty air, makes it full and heavy. Even Mance wears a thin, little smile on his sharp-hinged cheeks. Nods at Sansa, says a word. Goes to say another; but she is already nodding back at him.

“Plans,” she says. “I heard you.” Flutters her fingertips. “Lead the way.”

Arrow-straight, the figure she cuts against the fiery light of the setting sun. Not a tremble in the ivory-knife of her jaw. Clear light in her cool eyes. Strength to every bit of her: the edges of her face, the square way she holds her shoulders — the steady steps she takes on her way to enter the tent of a king. 

Watches her go. Big and dumb, a bull lying lazy in a mountain-meadow warmed by the sun: his mouth open, eyes wide. Drinks in every bit of her.

Like a wolf, the way she walks.

Mm — like a _queen_.

His shield-maiden, his warrior-queen.

Then he moves, scrabbles; breaks the knots of the tangle as she turns back at the mound of snowbear skins, quirks a brow at him. Waits for him. Kicks at Tormund, deaf to his shout. Deaf to anything but the wordless sound shaping her smiling lips.

Leaves his friend shouting in the snow.

Gets up — goes to her.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original plot-points be damned it seems! We were meant to be at the Wall by this chapter in my initial outline; but here we are instead 🙊 Hope this slower pace is still okay! Sowed a few seeds in this chapter: echoes to future actions, call-backs for future revelations… _Tiny_ bit of drama, too, eh? Protective!Jon putting his money where his mouth is 😍 Working away on the next chapter; but there may be a little delay till it’s posted (again!! I’m so sorry!) as I am wrangling a lot with the _whens_ and _wheres_ of this little world at the moment. Just really want it to feel **right** for us all… Anyway! Thank you so much for reading as ever — and hope you are all keeping well as can be, loves! ❤️
> 
>  **p.s.** it is fixing to be between 22-25 chapters… are we okay with that?! Or are we bored of my endless purple prose and rambling p.s. end-notes?! Wouldn’t blame you! Love and light to you all _anyway_ because I appreciate you more than you’ll ever know, my honeys. 🥰


	16. Crows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Looks up at her now, rocks on the bone-blunt flats of his knees. Gazing down at him, sea-ice eyes glowing in the firelight. Fingers in his hair, sliding a hand to cup his chin…’
> 
> last chapter felt a little… _messy_ to me but this one (I hope!) is better. 🥰

Her fingers on the map. He watches them: moving, weaving — _ruling_. A moon-pale fingertip pressed to a sigil etched in ash-dark ink. Little word-burst of names, houses, castles. Tap to a thatch of trees picked out in green-blue blotches.

Mance watches, too. Lifts a brow at aught that she says — then gifts her a nod or a frown. Runs a finger along his jaw, asks a question.

“Deepwood Motte?”

Keeps her eyes on the map. “Ironborn.”

“Torrhen’s Square?”

“Ironborn.”

“Last Hearth?”

Her fingertip sliding further north now. “Nobody knows who holds it.” Strokes at a knot of blackish blue-grey ink. “The Umbers are divided.”

“Divided?”

“The Greatjon sits in chains at the Twins,” she says. “His kin do not steer the same course in his absence.” Sees the question before Mance voices it; taps her fingertip as she continues in the same steady tone. “One fights for the North… the other seemingly against it.”

Mance straightens up a little. “Winterfell?”

“Bolton.”

Flat of a fire-warmed axe to a wound, the way she hisses it. Jon watches her carefully; wonders at when he last heard that smoke to her voice, that searing pain alive on her tongue. Pain, true enough — but there is no fear there now. Only fury. He is glad to see it, feels his own heart swell with its heat.

“Let me guess,” says Mance quietly. “Hother Whoresbane sits at Winterfell with the Bolton host.” Little lift of his brow as she nods: once. “Mors Crowfood hungers for my head most like — and seeks to find a lord who’ll let him have it.”

Frown dappling her brow. “Mors Umber never did like the free folk.”

“Scout stole his daughter.” Mance lifts the other brow. “Long time ago.” The look he gives them both now is measured, thoughtful. “Man doesn’t often forget such a thing as that — nor forgive it.”

Jon does not like that measured look. “Why don’t you say it plain, old — ”

“The past is past.” Slides between them both, cuts out the white-hot heart of his anger: her voice cool as the sea-ice of her eyes. “I am sorry for his daughter — but I was not stolen.” Fingertips drifting on the map: up over blue-grey ink to a blank sweep of white. “I am found.” Lifts her chin, settles her stare — every bit a queen. “I am free.”

*

Man in him threatens to come out, just then. Way she holds herself. Cool sweep of her eyes. Shift of her hips beneath her furs; his hands ache to map their curves. He steps forward instead, busies his fingers by brushing them south of hers upon the parchment.

“The Wall,” he rumbles. “What of that?”

Hears the little hitch of breath in her throat as their skin skates together fleetingly. Thinks of her in the water. Like a storm, the way it shakes him: sudden — slash of light crackling behind his eyes. Bare. Blue. Every bit of her gliding against him. Blinks: once, twice.

“Rumours,” Mance is saying. “Half-truths.” Note of something in his voice now; can’t quite pick out the shade of it. “Crowns and shadows. Flame that burns from dusk to dawn… and from dawn to dusk.”

Jon tries to pinch out the storm-light behind his eyes. “Who commands it now?”

“Denys Mallister.”

Her fingers tremble on the map — just a little. “A riverman.”

“Aye,” says Mance. “The reason I left the Watch — that, too.”

Stills her hand; bird-tilt of her head. “What did he do?”

“Told me to burn the red from my cloak.” Mance strokes a slip of the scarlet silk banding his collar. “Be a drab little crow like the rest of them.”

Beat of bitter quiet. Each of them with a different type of hunger burning in their hearts. Map pinned out beneath their hands; a world of aches and old hurts spread and spilt in half a hundred shades of ink. Crackle of fireflame — then she clears her throat.

“We’ll need them,” she says gently. “The crows — your old brothers.” Looks back at the map; the knot of greystone and godswood her finger circles. “Brothers… bannermen, too.”

Mance gifts her a nod: tight, quick. Jon steps into her side, blazes a trail from the icy perch of the crows to the ash-dark name she is stroking — softly, softly. Puts his thumb there between her fingers.

“Your father’s old bannermen,” he says quietly. “They are loyal?”

Feels her shift into him, little by little. “They are scattered.”

“Would they stand together again?”

Looks at him: side-sweep of sea-ice. “For a Stark, you mean?”

“No.” Shakes his head, thumb slipping up to hook over her own. “For you.”

Gazes levelled now. Her eyes are very blue in the glow of fireflame; warm as the weave of her fingers through his own where they rest atop the map. Watches as her lips part, as a fleeting shadow chases a knife across her brow. Dents the skin in a frown.

“They might,” she breathes. “The North remembers, after all.”

Knife pulls free as he smiles at her — softly, softly.

“Does it remember you?”

Look at Mance together now, brows knitting back as if they have suddenly remembered he is here with them: hulked in firelight, a king made a shadow in his own tent. But he has a smile on his sharp-hinged cheeks, something knowing shading up his eyes.

“It will.”

Quiet, the way she says it. Tone that brooks no argument. Tone that — for all its softness — carries the cutting-strength of steel.

*

Glitter of that steel in her eyes, too. Moon-glow catching at it as they step out of the mound of snowbear skins, leave Mance to play his lyre to the babe dozing in Dalla’s arms. Quiet strains of its strings bandying with the woodsmoke on the air.

“Pretty, hmm?”

She looks at him when he says it, nods, smiles — but there is a knife-shadow carving up her brow again. He puts his hand on her arm. Lets it slide down to circle her wrist once she slows her pace. Would never grip at her; would never use his strength to stop her. He will only wait. Follow the rhythms she sets. Mm — never force her to follow his. 

Little rumble low in his throat; but he knows that she can see the wordless question in his eyes. Her fingers find his own, weave through tight together. Thumbs crossed like a map-mark; the print of hers rasping slow across the pearl of his nail. Over and over. Makes another sound in his throat: lower this time.

“Will it remember me?”

“Why would it not?”

“Because I am not the girl that it knew,” she says softly. “I am changed.”

He lifts a hand, skates a fingertip the ivory-knife of her jaw. “How?”

“I’m a woman now. Not a wraith.”

“You are a warrior,” he rumbles. “A wolf — that, too.”

Leans into his feather-light touch. “My brothers are ashes. My sister is lost.” Ebb of pain in her blue eyes; tarries — then is swept away by the tide of her lashes. “I am the last Stark left to the Northmen… but a name may not be enough to make them follow me.”

“You are more than a name.” Fingertip slipping down her throat, dipping into the hollow at the base of it. “Men will not follow you because of a name.” Unfurling — soon his hand spans the space atop her heart. “They will follow you because you are strong. Because you are fierce. Because you are fair and good and true.” Leans forward to meet her brow with his own. “They will follow you because they love you… because they would _die_ for you, Sansa Stark.”

Bumps her brow against him now, nudges at him till he learns the rhythm she is setting and follows it. Levels his face with her own, takes the kiss she lands on his mouth. He holds her jaw in his hand. Thumb cradled in the little smile-crease that lifts her cheek. Bands his other arm around her waist, catches up the weight of her.

Remembers how light she was when first he found her. Like air in his arms as he carried her over gullies and flutes of flowing water, set her down where she wouldn’t get her feet wet. Different now. Bones fleshed with sinew, her soft skin taut with her own strength. Feels it: ice and fire and stone and steel.

 _Feels_ it — the glow of her heart inside his own.

*

Warm in their tent. Cookfire at its centre weaving sparks up through its smoke-hole as the rabbit turns over the flames. Wolf is out hunting again as it cooks; but she insists on saving a few strips of meat for him even so.

“Fat, spoiled wolf is no good to anyone.”

Rumbles it — then narrows his eyes at her as she rolls her own at him. Smile at each other. They eat. Quietly. The little flint-knife he made her caught between her fingers. Soft sheen of grease shining on her kiss-bruised lips. Mm. Finds he cannot look away from that.

“Mance’s cloak,” she is saying. “There is more to that story.”

Drags his eyes away, finds her own. “Hmm.”

“You know it?”

Puts down his bowl. “Crow’s cloak once — but a wisewoman stitched it up with scarlet silk from Asshai.” He smiles as she looks at him: bird-tilt of her head, fingers gripping at her knees. “Mance was ranging with his black brothers, brought down an elk. Busy stripping its skin when a shadow-cat found them.”

“He was hurt?”

Nods: once. “Arm and back all ripped and bloody.” Nudges his toe at the ashes, pushes them back. “Crows carried him off to a village. Left him there to be healed up.” Looks into the flames. “Wisewoman sewed his wounds. Fed him broth. Gave him wild-tea till he stopped bleeding, grew strong again. Rode back to the Wall — only red left on him those bits of silk she patched into his cloak.”

“Where did she get the silk?”

“Her grandmother got it from a wreck on the Frozen Shore,” he says quietly. “Gifted it to her as she gifted it to Mance — her greatest treasure.”

“And Denys Mallister commanded him to _burn_ it?” 

That steel-glitter in her wide eyes; he is glad to see it. “Aye.” Gives a half-shrug. “Bit of wildling treasure meant naught to him.” Stretches out his arms, rolls his shoulders. “Black and black and black. Commanded Mance to dress again as all crows are like to dress. But Mance refused — hmm, kept his cloak. Keeps it still.”

“He left the crows behind,” she says softly. “Left the birds behind.”

Watches her now: closely, quietly. “Birds?”

“There’s a man.” Looks at the flames. “Back at — ” Makes a gesture; he follows it, then swoops up to meet her gaze when he feels it rest back upon him. “He sold me.”

“Sold you?”

“He told me I was going home to Winterfell.” Little shiver along the ivory-knife of her jaw, faraway look in her blue-wide eyes. “That I’d win it back.” It settles now, that shiver; soon enough she is steel again. “But he lied.”

Gentle, how he treads now — even though he is fit to fight, to _kill_. “What is his name?”

“Littlefinger.”

Weighs it. Like a sword-thrust, a bowstring pulled taut. “Because he is a little lord?”

“Something like that.”

“Hmm,” he rumbles. “The land he rules is no good?”

She shakes her head. “Sticks and stones. Sheep-pellets.”

“Little lord of stones and shit.”

Burst of dawn-light, the smile that settles on her cheeks now. “He takes a mockingbird for his crest.” Smile dips, dances — shimmers like the sea-ice of her eyes. “Sings like one, too. A different tune depending on the lord he seeks to charm… the game he seeks to win.”

“Wolf can eat a mockingbird,” he says evenly. “Pick its bones clean. Be nothing of it left. No feathers.” Meets her gaze; little smile on his lips as her own grows bright again. “Not even a beak for it to sing with.” Tries to fight the flickers of bloodlust tightening his throat. “Let him try to drown out a wolf’s howl, then — hmm?”

*

Goes to sleep with the sound of her laughter warm in his ears. Dreams. Lets the bloodlust take him in the dark of them. The hunt, bared teeth, a strangled cry. Hounds and mockingbirds — he sees them all fall silent. Bones beneath his feet, blood on his teeth; a howl raking up the night.

“Jon?”

Does not belong in dreams dark as these: that voice. Surges toward it. Fights free till he tastes woodsmoke, not blood. Her name on his tongue, not a howl.

Rolls onto his back, rasps a hand down across his face. Blinks.

Light: dawn, fire — the steel-glitter of her eyes.

Blinks again. Hard. Lifts to his elbows, then to sitting — furs of their bed pooling round his hips. She is stood before him. Bare. Blue. Every bit a queen.

 _His_ queen. His —

“Sansa.”

On his knees now as she nods, follows the rhythm she is setting in him — wordlessly.

Heat flushing beneath her skin. Fire-bruises starting in her cheeks. Ebbing to her throat, the spoke of her collarbone, the dip between her breasts.

Lower — _lower_.

He follows it: this trail of salt-hot hunger blazing the valleys of her body. Puts his mouth to each bruise of flame, cools it with his tongue, his lips.

She is something wild against him. An ebb-and-flow of movement. Currents stirring her to shift on her soles, catch at his hair with her fingertips. Mouth on her hipbone: a ridge of flint rising against silky skin.

Looks up at her now, rocks on the bone-blunt flats of his knees. Gazing down at him, sea-ice eyes glowing in the firelight. Fingers in his hair, sliding a hand to cup his chin.

“Jon,” she says. “Jon?”

“ _Edzèa_ ,” breathes it. “Let me.”

“I would let you do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Any— _oh_.”

Milk and honey. Salt, too. Roll of his tongue against flesh hot as his hunger. Tremble of her thighs; a cradle to his cheeks, soft skin dipping beneath the press of his thumbs. He trails his knuckles down the inside of her calves, then taps the back of one gently, urges her closer. Wonders distantly if he is still dreaming.

Steps into him. Lifts up to her tiptoes as he settles her leg over his shoulder, sinks back onto the sole of her foot, hips shifting forward as she rocks into the rhythm of his mouth. Mm — a rhythm set by the both of them.

Little word-bursts skittering out from her lips. Names of gods mixed up with his own. Rumble in his chest, fingers whispering up the back of her knee, tracing the swell of her thigh. Leg looped over his shoulder tightening. Her thumbs rubbing circles at his crown.

Flickers of storm-light, the way the muscles are dancing in her belly. Toes curling against his back. Fingers in his hair again: moving, weaving — _ruling_. He sighs assent into her, follows the direction they decree. Follows them. Follows her. Always will.

It starts as he knew it would: that stone-ripple of heat ebbing up from between her hipbones, making her shiver, sigh — tip back her head in a shout soft-edged with all the music of wolfsong.

“Howl,” he rumbles. “Howl.”

Smiles at that — her, too.

Like the dawn, the look of light she pours down upon him when at last he draws back: damp-lipped, panting a little.

Folds to her knees, lays back amongst their furs. Hands on his shoulders, pulling him down with her. He follows. Always will.

Soft and lax in the cradle of his arms now — but there is something of the wolf in her eyes when she tastes herself on his tongue. Catches it just before she rolls them closed, drowns in their kiss. He sees it even so — and he is glad to see it.

Because there are beasts to hunt, to fight — to _kill_.

Beasts and birds, both.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaah, too soon? Too late? Too much?? I can only hold my hands up and say it felt right to turn the heat up a fraction toward the end of this chapter! All that map-reading and green-dreaming… this was the only logical conclusion for our babies gone wild, it seems... 🔥 I’m **so** sorry for the wait on this chapter; but this weird book-show-mash-up au we’re working with takes a little time to tweak — so if you’re squinting at timings and who holds what and _hang on I thought so-and-so was here and_ — just bear with me! Please. We’ll work it all out. Promise! Hope there’s still some of you lovelies out there enjoying this and that everyone is okay as can be. Keeping this end-note short(ish) this week for once so I’ll leave it there; stay well and look after yourselves, honeys! ❤️
> 
>  **p.s.** details of Mance’s cloak/the story of its making are much more fleshed-out in _A Storm of Swords_ Chapter 7: Jon I — not sure if it was retold in show-verse... 📽️


	17. Passage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Gasps, then — and it skates down his spine: that sound, that stutter-sigh slipping from her tongue onto his own. Clatter as the weirwood bow falls to the ground, bumps against his boots.’
> 
> maps & _manoeuvring_ —most accurate tag as can be for this here chapter . . . enjoy, lovelies! 😍

They sleep a little, wake as the camp around them begins to clatter. But they do not stir. She traces the lines of his body instead; asks after the story behind each scar.

He tells her, smoke of her scent on his skin the only thing that convinces him that the dream-lit tumble — him on his knees, head bent to the queen above him, milk, honey, salt — was real.

“Arrow.”

Fingertip circling his shoulder. “Whose bow?”

“Mountain clans.”

Print pauses in its circle. “Flints or Norreys?”

“Norreys.”

“I didn’t know they threw arrows as well as axes.”

“Tried their hand at it,” he says lazily. “ _Tried_ — that’s why the arrow hit my shoulder.”

Ruffle of laughter as she presses a kiss to his chest. “I am glad it didn’t hit your heart.”

“ _Edzèa_ ,” he murmurs. “Sansa?”

Flick of warmth against his skin: her tongue. “Yes, Jon?”

“Come here.” 

*

Stirs something in him, the knowing way she talks: easy, light — names and castles and clans rolling from her lips like water from a cliff. Way her fingers move; as sure and steady on a map as they are across skin and scars and stories etched within them. Way she draws them out: those stories, hooks them like a fish on a line.

Hooks _him_ like a fish on a line. Mm, that is what he is — caught up by a scarlet-strung net, never wanting to be set free.

Others laugh at him. He hears them when his back is turned. Talking behind their hands, throwing words out — _been kissed by fire yet?_ — hoping it’ll be their hook he gets snared on next. But he does not care to join their games. Could crack their skulls with one well-aimed fist, clip blood from their mouths with a lazy swipe of his forearm.

They know it, too — else why do they giggle like girls in the springtime only when his back is turned to them?

Rolls his eyes instead from where he sits mending mail beside Tormund. Says nothing. His friend is not so patient: sticks a foot out, sends a lad sprawling into the snow.

“Watch it, boy — else my boot might find another home.” Breath like smoke drifting out from the flames of his beard; sinking back as the lad scampers off into the tents. “Sooner we move off from here, the better. Boys go bad if the going is too good. Get lazy. Gossip. Gripe… isn’t that right, lad?”

Sweeps a look at his friend. “Hmm — it’s what you always taught me.”

“Taught you. Told you.” Quirk of fire as Tormund lifts a brow, shows a snowy grin. “Trained you — hmm, how many moons?” Thumb to his chin as he considers it. “More’n I can count, _that’s_ how many.”

Jon spots a lone strand of silver in Tormund’s beard. “Can’t even name a number anymore — you’re getting old, Tormund Giantsbane.”

“Old my arse!” huffs it, slaps a palm to Jon’s belly: strong enough to fell an oak tree. “Beat you black-and-blue if I cared to, boy — and you know it.”

“Aye, you could.” Little soft strain in his chest as he looks from the silver strand to those sapphire eyes — smiles. “Sansa’d kill you for tearing up my stitches, though.”

Laugh together at that. Tormund squints off into the woodsmoke wreaths about the tents, then looks back — points, smiles.

“Good,” he says low and soft: softer than that brass-bell voice has any right to be. “She’s _good_. Good girl. Good fighter. Good heart — for a kneeler.” Shakes his head, smile turning rueful. “Not so much a kneeler now, hmm? Little _gǫh_ is one of us… mind you keep it that way, Jon the Boy.”

Opens his mouth to reply — loses his words as Tormund pinches at his ear, twists it till Jon yelps like he used to as a lad.

“Hear me?” Laugh like thunder: brass-bell sounding loud and clear. “Good — else I’ll put my Toregg in your stead. Hmm? No? Didn’t think you’d like _that_ , lad.”

Bats at the hand pinning his ear, rolling eyes following the point of Tormund’s finger back toward the smoky skins and furs of the camp. Mm — to the queen who sits amongst it all, cheek resting against the bone-white fur of the wolf at her side.

*

Ghost walks between them for a time — stays closer to her always even so, it seems — then breaks for the trees soon as the snow-heavy tops come into view. Cuts a path for them to follow: heavy pawprints sunk deep, scattering drifts to slip soundlessly into the sky. Drift and slip and float — fade away like flecks of ash, smoke.

Bow slung over her shoulder. Watches the long, pale curve of it glint in the low sunlight; then starts off in the wake of her footsteps.

She walks swiftly now, boots sure-placed as the wolf bounding off into a world of white. Little stoop in her shoulders, head turning this way and that, tracking the sounds rising up around them. Bit of birdsong — stammering to silence as a lone hawk sweeps just above the tree-tops.

Trickle of a stream somewhere.

He closes his eyes for half a heartbeat, thinks on where that stream may flow: a pool warm as the memory it has burned in him.

Looks up with a start. Whistle of an arrow, soft thud of its point into bole or branch — or bone. Meets her eyes, then follows her gaze over his shoulder. Turns on his heel, sees what she has felled whilst he was stood thinking of dream-lit tumbles, honey water.

“Rabbit,” she says quietly. “For the pot.”

Turns back to catch the last half of an easy shrug lifting her shoulders. Steps to her — and there is something like a growl smoking low in his throat.

“Better aim than a mountain man.”

Her mouth twitches into a smile. “Straight through the heart.”

“Might be the Norreys will seek you out to train them.”

Sunlit smile widens. “I’ll trade them an arrow or two… if they promise me their axes.”

“They will,” he says on an ebb, a groan. “Norreys. Flints. Northmen — _all_ of them.”

He tastes that smile now. Feels it mirror the shape of his own, then share the smoke of his growl in its hunger. Her lips are cool as the air they breathe; but her tongue is hot. Drinks it — greedily. Arm banding round the small of her back, hand lifting to put a thumb to her jaw, tilt her head to let him in deeper.

Lets him, a small moan catching at the hollow of her throat. Fingers in his hair. Hand that is still grasping her bow pressed into the muscles of his back. Little shift of her feet, her hips, her thighs — and she is pulling him to slide a knee between her own. Follows it: this rhythm she is setting. Will _always_ follow it. 

“Jon — mm, _Jon_.”

Echo of the way she moved against him in the early wash of dawn. Hips rocking, thighs bowing wider till his leg is pressed up firm between them. Gasps, then — and it skates down his spine: that sound, that stutter-sigh slipping from her tongue onto his own. Clatter as the weirwood bow falls to the ground, bumps against his boots.

“Feels — ” loses her voice to a wisp of a whimper. “Mm, that _feels_ — ”

Nose at her neck now, mouth skittering down the curve of it. “It’s good?”

“It’s good,” she breathes. “Oh, Jon — it’s _good_.”

Lets his smile stain the skin of her throat for half a breath. Takes her lips again, then meets her eyes — sees the ragged want painted blue-black at their edges. Tilts his head to her even so, wordlessly asking.

She nods at him as if he has spoken; kisses the thumb he has trailing against her lips. Mm, the thumb that now hunts the flesh hidden beneath her furs. Finds it: salt-hot, slipped up to the knuckle of his finger. Ripples through her, a shudder that sees her thighs part wider, her fingertips become arrowheads at his shoulder.

Hawk still gliding above the tree-tops; but it is not birdsong that shrieks to fill the snow-heavy forest, the sky, the air. It is a wolf — head tipped back in a soft-sung howl.

*

Every bit a wolf still as they crowd the map in Mance’s tent. Fire burnt low to embers at its centre, bone-scraps blackening over the flames then left outside for the dogs. Her lips are kiss-bruised as she answers some question, argues a point, gives an opinion even Tormund quietens to listen to.

Mm, kiss-bruised; but they carry the sound of steel even so — a tone that brooks no argument as she shakes her head, frowns.

“They will have sent out rangers, no?”

Jarl nods at her. “They’ll have a rough count of our numbers.”

“Our movements?”

Another nod. “That, too.”

“Yet you would ride toward the Wall full in strength,” she says, quirking a brow at Mance. “Hoping to cow the crows with a display of numbers they have already counted — and are already expecting.”

Tormund claws at his beard. “There’s a difference between counting figures and seeing them in the flesh, _gǫh_ — believe it.” 

“Hmm,” she says quietly. “They will look — and they will see fighting men, yes. Spears and shields and sleds and chariots… but they’ll see children, too. Elders. Men who’ve never held a sword.” Little bird-tilt of her head now; Jon feels his heartbeat quicken. “Let them see all _that_ … and you will have shown them your full hand.”

Grumbles in the tent, grudging nods — and a surprise at the centre of it all: broader smile than ever’s been seen lifting Mance’s sharp-hinged cheeks. Tarries for less than a breath before it fades; but Jon does not miss it.

“We have knowledge of their numbers, too.” Not a jot of that smile in Mance’s voice now as he puts back the expression of a king. “Sentinels made of straw. Very few crows walking the Wall between them.”

Val steps to Sansa’s side. “Crows at the top, aye.” Moonbeam and sunset, the way their heads bend toward the map. “Might be there’s more than one type of bird roosting there.”

“You said so yourself.” Sea-ice eyes lifting, settling on Mance now. “Crowns and shadows, a fire that burns and does not go out.”

Alfyn turns a frown of his own at Mance. “That don’t sound like black brothers to me.” Steeples his arms across his chest, stare dark as his hair. “Crows I can kill… but shadows? What man can stab at shadows?”

“Crowkiller,” says Tormund scornfully. “Chirping like a little bird, more like. Scared of another man’s shadow. Hmm — you scared of your own, too?”

Knife thumps down into the middle of the map. Fists thrown, an ale-jug cracked across Jarl’s head. Tormund laughing as he dodges roaring punches. Mance ignores it all, steps to stand nearer Sansa; looks from her to Jon with expectant eyes, then sweeps a fingertip across the dotted line of ice etched upon the map.

“What would you have me do?” he asks quietly. “I sent Styr to scout a stretch between Stonedoor and Greyguard — he was tasked to find a way across the Wall, then take Castle Black from the rear.” Taps the three dark dots thoughtfully. “But if there are more than crows roosting in its rafters… might be my men got captured — not the castle.”

Jon works his jaw. “Gate’s impossible to storm this side of the Wall. Few crows could hold it with arrows, oil.” Shifts a look at the brawling tent. “Kill half our numbers before we even got to ramming it.”

“I cannot afford a battle,” says Mance — but his eyes are not on Jon. “Not until we know what shadows move behind the Wall.”

She lifts her chin. “There will be no battle. No bloodshed. They will grant us passage.”

“How will we get them to grant it without a battle, _edzèa_?” 

Mance has a glimmer of that smile on his sharp-hinged cheeks. “The Horn?”

“You will not have to use even that.”

They both look at her now. “What, then?”

“Me,” she says — steel-glitter of her eyes set steady as the ivory-knife of her jaw. “They will open the gate for me.”

*

Queen in that tent — but here in their sleeping-skins she is a softer shade of herself. Her fingers picking back up the threads of scars and stories. Bird-tilt of her head as she looks up at him, asks for more.

“Here?”

Feels his belly dip beneath her fingertip — dance. “Raid.”

“Over the Wall?”

“Bay of Ice,” he says. “Fighting for scraps from a wrecked cog.”

Thumb rasping over the axe-mark. “Did the Wulls get you?”

“Ironborn.”

“Was it worth it?”

He rolls his eyes at her teasing smile. “I got my scraps.”

“Mm.” Leg nestled over his thigh now; elbow propped onto his belly as she levers herself up, levels her face with his own. “The man who cut you?”

Catches her jaw in one, great hand — tips her head back to get at her throat. “Buried him as his kind are like to do.” Ghosts a kiss beneath her ear. “Left him floating out to sea. Lungs full of blood and water.”

“Respectful,” she quips — but the teasing of her tone slips soft to a moan. “You have never lost a fight.”

Straightens her face with his hand now, rolls a thumb over her lips. “Never, _edzèa_.”

“You have killed men.”

“I have killed a thousand men,” he rumbles. “I would kill a thousand more — for you.”

Light explodes in her eyes then: the dawn-tides come all at once, washed through with strokes of storm, fireflame, star, sun, moon. Fixed on him — and the gods are in her gaze, he is sure of it. Why else does it make him tremble?

“Beasts and birds,” she whispers now. “What of them?”

“Dead,” he says. “Burned. Bits of bone buried far from home.” Wolf just there, leaning low in her eyes as she recognises those apple-seed words she spat so long ago. “That is what will become of the men who haunt your dreams, _edzèa_ — I swear it.”

There is no more talk after that.

There is just another wordless, dream-lit tumble: milk, honey, salt — his head bent always to the rhythms of his queen.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
>   
> **TL;DR** Scars. Stories. Smoky forest feels. Sansa being the absolute Queen Bee and Jon being in her absolute thrall — just the way we like it! 🐝
> 
> You may have guessed from this chapter that I am a little bit in love with the northern mountain clans from _asoiaf_. Did they make it across to show-lore? They better have! These are the most loyal, hardy bois/gals/ppl in the entire North and they love _the Ned_ (yes they call him that like Scottish highland clans, isn’t it amazing) and yes you bet your bottom dollar they are going to love his daughter in this au just as much! I will put a little link [here](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Northern_mountain_clans) just in case you are not roughly familiar with wtf they are and your curiosity is piqued. We are off to the Wall next chapter (finally!) and I _think_ the chapter after it might be a Sansa POV — we shall see. Till then, thank you so much for reading; hope you’re keeping safe, honeys. ❤️
> 
>  **p.s.** have you _seen_ the beauty that is that moodboard by the one and only Sonderlust45?! I am not ashamed to admit I have spent the best part of two days staring at it lovingly. Thanks again, honey; I love it so. 🥰


	18. Stag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Glint of light on the bone-white branches, blood-red leaves reaching up to whisper at the tired moon. Her eyes on his own — and the gods are in them now, the ghosts pushed out to fade forever from their sea-ice edges.’
> 
> been away from everything for a little while; feeling much better for it — glad to be back now, tho. If you have been waiting for this here shiny new chapter . . . thank you for your patience, honeys. 🌻

She rides out — alone.

A streak of fire in a world of white. Little bird-head bobbing with the rhythm of the horse. Swathed in furs smelling of the forests, the hilltops, the mountain-valleys, the frozen meadows, the glades, the ice-rivers; all the leagues they have ridden through. All the leagues they have ridden through side-by-side, together.

Now she rides out alone.

But she is not alone. Mm, she’ll never be alone again. She has the strength of the wild at her back. All of it. Wolves. Giants. Thousand arrow-points trained on the shadow she rides toward — the cliff of ice-wrought magic brushing the sky behind it.

Jon sits his horse, broods as is his way. Watches. Rumble still stoking bile in his belly — that she bid him stay behind. Didn’t ask it. Commanded, decreed. Makes no matter. Could have whispered it: he’d have listened clear enough. Always will.

Still, it sits uneasy on him. Roiling in his gut, fist furled and then unfurling on the reins. Over and over. Tight, rock-fast — itching to pull a grip on a sword, a dagger, an axe, a bow. _Anything_. Hold it ready. Heft. Aim. Loose. _Howl_.

“Calm your nerves,” murmur at his side. “I raised you better than to fidget like a bride before her bedding.”

“I don’t like it.”

Mance smiles at the timbre of the growl. “You don’t like much. Never have.” A sigh: willow-leaves stirring in the wind. “Eyes the same colour as your moods, Jon Snow.”

“That’s not my name.” Growl ebbing lower now. “Told you enough times.”

But Mance ignores the protest: always does. Skips over it like it is nothing. Like it is a quibble Jon will never win — never understand.

“You like her, though. That much is plain.” Throws a glance at him now: up and down, sharp brown eyes somewhat warm. “Tell me, Jon the Bride — what will you do if a polished little southron lord looks at her with heat in his eyes?”

Heat in _him_ now: blanched fury to the pits of his bones. “Put his eyes out.” 

“Tsk,” tuts Mance — but he is smiling. “That just won’t do.”

“I would do it, Mance — if she asked it.”

Mance nods: once, twice. “Lords have looked at her, Jon. They’ve touched her. Hurt her.” Tremble of a grimace tightening those sharp-hinged cheeks. “Those same lords you’ll soon be meeting.”

“Are you trying to — ”

Shakes his head. Once. “No.”

“What, then?”

“Your fury is a powerful force, Jon. Always has been.” Those sharp brown eyes warm as the fire-streak strands they both sit watching. “Don’t waste it on a stag and his shadows — not when there are worse beasts we’ve yet to meet.” Finds his shoulder, squeezes it. “That’s all I ask of you, lad.”

*

Agrees with that, reluctantly. Beasts and birds. Hundred different bones and beaks to meet, stalk, hunt — _break_. Bows his head, nods his patience.

Wolf is not so patient, though. Grows bored with the waiting, the bile in his belly.

Cuts from the trees. Some spectre of moonlight, red eyes a ruby-glint — a streak of fire in a world of white.

There are cries of shock: echoes carried long and loud on the raw air. Men in tin suits rattling. Warhorses made ponies by their nervous neighing. Mm. King’s men made small in the shadow of the wolf. His wolf, hers — _their_ wolf.

“Good,” utters it from where he watches: low, soft. “Good, Ghost.”

Little lick-lipped snarl; Jon feels a glimmer of the same working fire along his jaw. The wolf circles the garron’s hooves, bone-white shoulder brushing at her stirrup. Her boot. Lifts his eyes now: tracks the lines of her, breath tangling in his throat.

Arrow-straight, the figure she cuts against the low sun. Arrow-straight — and every bit a queen.

Holds her head like one as she talks. Fingers moving, weaving — _ruling_. Wrapped in the silk-soft gloves he made her from a mountain hare’s fine white pelt. Little bird-flutter in his chest to see it. Always.

Wants to take those gloves off, press her bare palms to his mouth, nip the tip of her thumb with his teeth.

Mm, _wants_ it.

“Burning stag — red witch tried to set my eagle the same.”

Jolts Sansa’s hands from his mind. “Bloody bird… how is he?”

“Few feathers blacked-off,” grumbles Orell. “But he’s alright. Flew about fast enough away from that red magic.” Strokes the singed eagle sitting silent on his arm. “Hasn’t got his wings back altogether yet — else I’d be out circling your lost girl.”

Tries not to show a smile at the skinchanger’s gruff care. “Keeping guard with the wolf, hmm?”

“Hmm.” Blush on those weathered cheeks, might be. “Varamyr’s set his wolves nearby. Shadowcat is stalking the kneelers closer than you’d think.” Nods toward the knot of knights. “Just in case Ghost makes move to fight.”

Warms him through, though he hides it. “Be no fighting if the gods are good — but I thank you all the same, Orell.”

Moves off with a smile: the skinchanger and his singed eagle. Jon watches him go, raises a hand to the distant speck of Varamyr atop his snowbear. Settles back in his saddle, broods as is his way.

_Alone_ , he thinks, smiles, laughs. _You’ll never be alone again if the free folk can help it, edzèa. Half and half again_ — _forever, if you wish it_.

*

Wolf hangs back as she turns the garron on its quarters, presses along the path she cut across the snow when first the sun was lazy flame yawning dawn over the treetops.

Dark now, sun slipped to bed as the moon bursts silver at the centre of the sky. Catches on the bone-white fur of the wolf as he snaps at the hooves of the warhorses, sends the tin-men back toward their ice-wrought cliff, their black-iron gate. Would growl if he could, Jon knows it — would howl a song of joy at their leaving.

“Good,” utters it from where he watches: low, soft. “Good, Ghost.”

Shadows beneath her sea-ice eyes; picks the blueish bruise of them out on her moon-pale skin as she draws closer. Weary, tired — still, she rides toward him arrow-straight as a queen. _His_ queen.

Reins up close to him. He aches to touch her, reach out a hand, stroke her cheek with a gloved finger. Lean toward her from his horse, press his brow to her own. Drown in her eyes, drink her in — whisper a prayer against her skin. Taste her tongue, take her tiredness and make it his own.

“The morrow,” she is saying — and he realises in a dream that Mance is here, too: Mance and a thousand other men. “They will open the gate on the morrow.”

He does not know who starts the singing, only that — suddenly — the half-hacked forest is alive with song.

There are no lute-strings, no strands of woodsmoke on the air. Still, he is back in that tent. Listening to her hymn. Feeling it burst between his ribs like a falling star.

It rises and rises out here in the cold, the raw air, the silver-lit dark. Soars and echoes. Steals all the light from the moon, all the breath from his lungs.

*

Later, they laugh at it: free folk taking up a song from the south — Sansa’s hymn.

“It’s not my — ”

But Tormund only laughs a little harder. “That’s what they are calling it, _gǫh_ — man who wrote it means naught to us.”

“If only you’d been here all the years I fought to get these folk to fight as one.” Mance allows himself a smile. “Could’ve sung your pretty song and saved me a few hundred scars.”

“New tactic, is it?” says Val from her fireside seat. “Swap a sword for a song?”

Mance huffs a laugh through his nose. “Shame we’ve no little bird to sing it.”

“What about Orell’s eagle?”

Tormund laughs himself hoarse at that. “Now there’s a tactic, _gǫh_ — train him up as a songbird whilst he can’t do no scouting!”

Laughs herself hoarse now. Jon watches her, smile so broad on his cheeks he thinks the skin beneath his beard might creak and come apart.

She is not lost anymore. Not a queen in this tent, either. Not here, not now. She is herself. Happy, free. Laughter on her lips, in her eyes: shining like some fine, rare jewel. Mm — a jewel he will keep and treasure. Always. Forever.

Might be she sees the light change in his eyes now. Leans into him a little closer: point of her knee pressing at his thigh, elbow knocking against his hip. Her hand lifting from her lap to press spread-fingered atop his chest. Looking at him. Heat in her eyes as she crooks her head, offers him her mouth.

“Been kissed by fire yet?”

Her smile shimmers as she says it. Nods his head. She nods back. Flicker of laughter in her eyes; little bird-heads bobbing. But she is not a little bird shivering in her feathers here against him. Not a sapling uprooted by a storm. Not a lost girl in the snow. None of them.

_Herself_ — that is all she is.

Mm, the little heart that beats inside his own: that, too.

Always.

*

Ink of the sky is ebbing out to grey as they cut a path from the camp, find a way through the black-knife shadows of the trees.

Garrons press through the snow quietly. Wolf bounds ahead, pawprints carved soundless as the smoke of his breath on the still air. Ride side-by-side, together.

“Why the morrow?”

Question shimmers with his breath; he turns his head to chase the smoke of it on the air. Casts a glance at her. Doesn’t ask it again. Waits. Hesitant to tell him at first, he can tell: ghosts at the edges of her eyes, shiver on her skin. Thinks back to when first she told him about her home, the frostfire he picked her pressed into her palm as she spilled her story.

Castle not a village. Grey stone walls. Weirwood tree and a deep, black pool. Daughter of the lord that used to sharpen a greatsword amongst its crooked roots. Brother that climbed higher than the ravens flew. Mother from somewhere further south: rivers and red mud and eyes the same sapphire—

“Because I do not want to leave.”

Shadows shift — her story, too. He senses it suddenly: _sees_ it. She is not of that world anymore. Grey stone walls, featherbeds, a copper tub in front of the fire; a hell of griefs and ghosts and gilded pain. No. She is of this world: his world, _hers_ — this world they share, this world in which they move and talk and spar and sleep and _breathe_ together.

Makes his voice go gentle, quiet. “We must leave.”

“I know.”

“You have seen why we must leave.”

“Ice and magic,” she says softly. “Blue eyes, black hands — monsters in the dark.”

“Aye,” he rumbles. “All that.”

Ride side-by-side, together — quietly. Pulls up her horse half a heartbeat later. Turns to face him, her hair crowned by the tops of the weirwood trees growing in their grove behind her. Glint of light on the bone-white branches, blood-red leaves reaching up to whisper at the tired moon. Her eyes on his own — and the gods are in them now, the ghosts pushed out to fade forever from their sea-ice edges.

“We will…” she whispers. “One day?”

“One day,” he murmurs. “We will come back.”

“Promise?”

“Aye,” he says quietly. “I promise, _edzèa_.” 

Nods at him: once, twice. Slips from her saddle, leaves the garron cropping ice-grass between the trees.

Keeps her gaze level on his own as she backs into the circle of the weirwood grove, her fingers working loose the furs from around her throat.

He watches her quietly, hunger salt-hot on his tongue as the moonlight licks white at her bare shoulder. Watches, fidgets. Mm. Like a bride before —

“Jon,” she says. “Jon?”

Blinks at her as if he is waking from a dream. “Hmm?”

“Come here.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
>   
> Setting out to write this chapter I realised . . . I don’t want to leave this safe little snowy world either! So here we are: just a tiny bit longer in these wintry lands beyond the Wall. Gate will open on the morrow, but certain _things_ will happen beneath the moon first. That’s all I am going to say . . . Sansa POV next chapter; I am excited to see what you all make of it. Thank you if you are still here reading my words, following this journey we’re all on together. I appreciate you so much. ❤️
> 
>  **p.s.** utterly _stunning_ picset/poster up above is by the wonderful Semperlitluv. Your art has made me smile on many a dark day of late so thank you with all my heart, darling — I really love it so, **so** much. Okay! Goodbye for now, sweets! 🥰


	19. Grove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Shudder skates down the valley of her neck now. Dips to her nape, trips each bone-notch of her spine. He chases it with his fingertips and she is close to undone. A god, he is. A king. Magic — _magic_.’
> 
> back again (already, yay!) but will prob disappear for a bit now (again, boo!) to do some more writing and whatnot — for now enjoy this little moon-dappled offering if it please you, my loves . . . 🌙

The gods are in this grove. They are in her, too. She knows it — _feels_ it: the way her skin sings bare in the moonlit air.

Furs pooling at her feet; but she does not shiver. His eyes are fixed on her own. That heat in his ink-dark gaze. Mm — it warms her more than any fire. Turns her head, offers him the smooth line of her throat to look at. Feels it: skin sparking up from ash to ember as his eyes devour it.

“Sansa.”

It is a holy thing: her name in his mouth. Holy — and it makes her wild now. There is a heat — low, deep — coiling tight between her hipbones, dampening her thighs. Shifts on her soles, gasps at the roll, the dip, the press, the flush. That _heat_.

“Sansa.”

Closer now. Doesn’t realise her eyelids have slipped shut with that damp blush of heat till she blinks them back open. Finds him there, dismounted, a step or two away from fitting flush against her. Lip caught between his teeth and she wants to roll it free with a thumb, then catch it up between her own teeth, pull on it — _hard_.

Wants to lick a line along his jaw, lose her tongue to the scent of smoke that clings to the soft skin just beneath his ear.

Mm, _wants_ it.

He takes that step: one, two. Throws her in his shadow. Level in height; brow to brow, eye to eye. Equal. Always. But tonight the gods are in him as much as they are in her, in the trees, the moon-dappled snow, the sky — this world that beats to her heart’s own rhythm. Makes him swell. Surge.

Fills him with starlight — this grove, these gods, her gaze — and he is a king suddenly.

A _king_.

Something more, something better — something to set those knights she rode to parlay with rattling knock-kneed in their shiny tin-suits. This man, this king, this warrior-god — he does not need polished metal to make him shine, glitter, blind.

It is in his skin, his eyes, his strength, his sunlit smile. It is in every bit of him. It is _hers_. Because it is his. One and the same.

Always.

Forever.

*

Shudder skates down the valley of her neck now. Dips to her nape, trips each bone-notch of her spine. He chases it with his fingertips and she is close to undone. A god, he is. A king. Magic — _magic_.

“Mine,” she gasps now. “ _Mine_.”

Takes her mouth. Somehow he stands taller; she crooks to her tiptoes to follow his kiss. Deep and warm and wet, his mouth an echo of what his fingers play a rhythm at between her legs. Rocks her thighs tighter round his hand, her arms circling him, her tongue pulling up a rhythm of her own between his lips.

One hand lifting from her hip to press lightly to the hollow of her throat. Pull back, the both of them — gasping.

“Here?” he says. “Now?”

She looks from his lips to the question in his eyes. “Here. Now.”

“Cold out here,” he rumbles. “I see you shiver.”

“No,” she breathes. “I am warm.”

Questions in his eyes still. She could burst with it: this ache, this impatient want spiking flames in her blood. But she will answer him. How could she not? To deny him would be to deny her own self.

“I don’t want to be in a stone room. A castle.” Trips the words against his cheek, her hand cradled on his nape. “Trapped. Penned in like a sheep… I want to be out here. In the air — the wild.” Lips at his ear now: slow, soft. “With you, love.”

Sound that ebbs from him is some stuttered, strangled thing. Midway howl and moan and whimper and that rib-deep rumble that sets her throat alight.

The gods, this grove, that grumble — she is made of air suddenly, white-tipped water, a flush of light and strength and power tingling the long lines of her bones, making her curl her toes, rock up higher on them.

“Please,” she whispers: this woman who will only ever beg now to gods, not men. “Before the world becomes stag and crow, beast and bird — mm, before all that… let it belong only to the wolves.”

*

Half a wolf himself now — but she is not afraid.

Way he moves: low shoulders, the muscles of his side a moon-ripple in the light threading through the trees. There is hunger on her tongue to see it — salt-hot.

Steps back from her, fingers falling from between her thighs, slipping up over the ridge of her hipbone. Leaves a mark there, a palmprint that lingers even as he turns away from her.

His footsteps in the snow; she follows them — _him_ — as she did that first day he led her to fire, food. There is no fire now, but they are each of them ablaze. Bites her lip, damp brush of her thighs a whisper as she walks; ribbon of the same, that salt-streak marking her hipbone in the shape of his fingertips.

Tree-roots, a weirwood cradle. Rest of his furs lifted from his skin, set down amongst the crooked bone-white tendrils staking the heart tree to the earth. She looks down at them, back up at him — smiles.

“Furs on the ground.”

“Stars up above.”

Prayer, might be. A promise — a vow. Spoken soft, here in this grove with the gods all around them.

Greyish haze of a far-off dawn staking claim to the east; but here the air is silver-lit, shimmering like something living — something wild. Lifts her up, slips between her fingers, the soft-edged squares where her elbows rest just off her waist, the bridge of her soles as she digs her toes into the snow, arches up.

A shiver prickles across her nape.

“Jon.”

But he is there before his name has left her lips. Warm hands on her hips, thumb stroking the still-damp mark left by his palm. His mouth at her throat. Tips back her head, offers it to him. Wants him to kiss it. Mark it: tongue, teeth — a bloom to match the ink of his eyes. Let the world see it. See her for _his_ — because that is what she is. Always. _Always_.

“Yours,” she gasps now. “ _Yours_.”

Her fingers on his back, denting the slabs of muscle packed beneath his scar-flecked skin. Follows the gulley of his spine, traces the shapes she knows without looking: the axe-marks, the memories of daggers and blades in the dark, the swirls tapped in by a woodswitch with coloured ink and a sharp bone-needle. Knows them all, _sees_ them all with her fingertips — as well she could with her lips, her eyes.

“I want you, Jon.”

Like a hundred birds taking flight, the way the breath floods from her throat. She is lifted by it. Breath and air and the blaze of his fingertips on her flesh. Leaves in the wind: blood-red, resting easy on the bone-white branches as her hair slipping across his palm. Flowing — tightening as he furls his fingers deeper with rings of ruby, jags her head back to land a kiss on her mouth so gentle she wants to weep. Fat tears salt-hot as the desire pulsing fire between her thighs.

“ _Jon_.”

Body humming with heat. Like she’s been asleep in the snow — like she is slowly waking to the sun after centuries without its warmth. Splashes across her skin now: liquid pools of primrose light.

Porcelain, ivory, steel — she is one, the same, none at all.

Here in this moon-dashed grove, she is metal-melt, candlewax: soft and warm and glowing.

Here in this grove, she is something more than her scars, her skin.

Here, she is _his_ — as he is _hers_.

*

“Like glass,” he says. “You see?”

Thumb a dash along the spoke of her collarbone, dipping into the hollow of her throat. She lifts her head from the weirwood cradle, gazes down to the starlit spot he is tracing. Nods: once. He smiles, chases his thumb away with his lips, breathes his words into her skin.

“Shimmers, hmm? Like rain in the light.”

Feels his tongue there: salt-hot. “Will it hurt?”

“It will be slow,” he rumbles into her throat. “It will be good, _edzèa_.”

“Little heart,” she whispers. “Little heart that beats inside my own.”

He gives a low, little grumble: brush of his breath beneath her ear. She turns her eyes from the blood-red leaves, the bone-white branches, the silver flecks of stars — finds his lips with her own, drinks his gaze. Feels his voice on her tongue.

“I am yours.”

“You are mine,” she breathes. “Will you have me?”

“Forever.”

Gods and men and knights shivering in their tin-suits atop the snow. Thorns hidden in the petals of her homecoming: a flayman’s knife, a father’s kiss in the belly of the crypts. Beasts and birds. A flicker of anger in her chest — white-forked.

“Even though I am broken?”

Hint of the same fury in his eyes. “You are not broken.” Nudging at her brow with his own, deepens a kiss that leaves her gasping. “You are a wolf. A winter storm.” Thighs bowing wider; his hips slip between them. “You have seen it. You have felt it — the strength that rests just _here_.”

“In my heart?”

Fingers shedding rings of ruby to spread across her breast now. “In your heart.”

“You helped me make it so.”

“It was not made,” he rumbles. “You _found_ it, Sansa Stark of Winterfell — it was always there.”

Tin-men fade sharp as they appeared. Thorns, too. Wolves chase the shadows of beasts and birds far into the trees. Far beyond the black-iron gate that will open on the morrow. For now, it is only this: a moon-dappled grove, she and he, the gods, the wild — this world they share together. Always. Forever.

She moves, he yields — rolled onto his back, her thighs sunk wide across his hips. He brushes his wrists down over her nipples, leaves an ache to follow with his fingers. Tips of them notching the arrows of her ribs, tracing a ribbon round her waist, then sinking to slot a grip on her hips. Rocks her — slow, good.

“Here?” he says. “Now?”

Palm to his chest, she leans onto her knees. “Here. Now.”

“ _Edzèa_.”

Lingers on the air: that hiss of breath between his teeth. She feels him — hot, hard — sinks back slow. Ebb, whimper, some soft-sung howl as he slides inside her, fills her. Swell, surge — her eyes burst open, blink back shut.

His hands on her hips. She rocks back a little, digs at his thigh with her fingers, nearly melts as his thumb dips down from her navel — _rolls_.

“It’s — ”

“Good,” she utters on a tangled tongue: low, soft. “ _Good_ , Jon.”

“Hmm,” he rumbles — and she hears the smile in his voice. “ _Sansa_.”

It is a holy thing: her name in his mouth, his cock in her cunt. Makes her smile wide as he now — to think that the old septa would whip her knuckles, wash her mouth with lye-soap, bid her read a book of prayer, kneel, repent, plead for divine forgiveness.

Mm, but the gods are in this grove — and they are smiling, too. She knows it. _Feels_ it: the way her skin sings bare beneath the warmth of his kiss.

*

Dusty knives of sunlight slice between the witness of the weirwood trees, brush at bodies being bound back up with furs and belts and boots.

Feels him inside her still even as they ride side-by-side through the half-hacked forest, the ragged lines of free folk moving dreamlike toward the Wall.

He is a spot of heat within her now: milk, honey, salt — a bloom ink-dark as his eyes feathering her throat for the world to see.

Her body is boneless in the saddle; metal-melt, candlewax shaped by his hands, his kisses, his words, his rhythms. His as it is hers — hers as it is his.

 _I am yours_.

 _You are mine_.

Prayer, might be. A promise — a vow. What need have they of cloaks and crystals? They are bound together by an oath of blood-beat and bone and breath. Spoken soft, there in a weirwood cradle in that grove with the gods all around them.

_Will you have me?_

_Forever_.

Gate rises up before them now: black-iron, bent back, tunnel it guards brimming with a sea of free folk. Pulls up her horse to the side of it, counts them in — one by one.

He waits at her side. Quietly. Watches with her all the strength of the wild seek passage through that cliff of ice-wrought magic. All of it — giants, sleds, iron-clad warriors — till only the wolves remain.

She looks at him. He looks at her.

They watch each other — then turn toward the trees, the distant memory of that god-lit grove, the silent shadow of the bone-white wolf bounding out from the branches now toward them.

Gazes lock back together and her heart is right there: clad in furs, swaying on a shaggy garron, ink-dark eyes and sunlight limning the snow caught in his wild hair.

He smiles at her. She smiles at him.

“One day.”

“One day,” he rumbles. “I promise, _edzèa_.”

Nods at him: once, twice. It is enough — his word, his promise. Steadfast as a vow sung into scars and skin in the shadow of a heart tree.

They turn together now, wolf cutting a path between them.

Let the Wall swallow them whole, leave their world locked behind a black-iron gate — but they have brought the wild with them. All of it. Giants. Wolves. Kings. Queens. Even the gods from their moon-dappled grove — come to shake the sky with thunder: a storm of wolfsong the south has never seen before.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
>   
> I wanted Sansa to have this moment for herself — to claim it, control it, _own_ it. I wanted her to feel safe, far away from memories of stone rooms and ripped gowns and being pushed face-down onto a bed. In the air, the open — it just felt right to me. Weirwood trees as their only witness, the gods tied into every leaf and branch . . . I don’t know; I got swept up in the frosty beauty of it all and I will not apologise, okay! Ahh, hope you enjoyed this chapter, honeys . . . traffic’s dipped a little of late but as long as you my faithful few are healthy and happy and here buoying me up we shall keep on sailing! Back to Jon next time and sweeping up some allies all and sundry etc. etc. — till then, thank you so much for reading. Be kind and stay well and lovely as you always are. ❤️
> 
>  **p.s.** if you were having trouble picturing Jon’s ink-dashed, muscle-bound torso as it exists in my own depraved mind, I provided a little _visual aid_ for you up above: tattoos and all — thank the gods for Rollo, that’s all I’ll say . . . 😍


	20. Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Angry. Mm — with _him_. Gods in her gaze again. Gods of war and blood and shields of weirwood hefted taut as her cheeks. There is a stirring in his belly: sharp, hot.’
> 
> I sat on the first half of this chapter for a week or two and then edited and finished it in a wave of much-needed escapism today; posting now because, who knows — you might need a little fade-out from real life for a bit, too. ✨

Keeps his promise of patience to Mance — for half a day.

Scarce are they seated in the hall of the crows — bowls not yet filled, black bread unbroken — before a fight takes flight. King’s man come too close. Jon does not like it: the heat of that little southron knight leaning low to whisper at his fire-haired queen, the light in those little southron eyes.

Light doesn’t go out in those eyes, try as he might. Arm tight-locked round the knight’s soft throat till a dozen men grab at his shoulders, wrestle him away from his kill. He turns, breaks the nose nearest to him.

A shout, a roar — chaos.

Crows flapping fury from their perches. Tin-men rattling loud as if they still have on their shiny suits of polished metal. Eagle screeching up a storm outside the hall — then the wolves begin their singing. Somewhere, a raven caws.

“Beast,” croaks the knight. “ _Savages_ — the lot of them.”

Jon looks at the fire-bruise torque his elbow has left on that soft little southron throat. Smiles to see it, cracks his knuckles. There is blood on his cheek; but it does not belong to him.

“Men are men,” says Mance in his peace-keeping voice. “No matter what side of the Wall they are born on.”

Another knight grinds his teeth. “Stay your distance next time, Godry.”

“Wildling wants a fight, he’ll have it.” The big man lumbers back to his feet. “Leave his kind to run free and they’ll come back to bite you like bloodhounds gone bad on a hunt.” Rolls his shoulders, rasps a hand across his bruised neck; Jon smiles wider. “Come at me again — I promise not to hurt you, lad.”

Reedy voice pipes up. “Ser Godry speaks true enough. Rabid dogs — ”

But Tormund gives a mocking bark, slams the squire’s head into the tabletop till he is silent. Erupts, then. Things long-dormant: relief from fear, frustration. King’s men trapped here in the cold finally getting to warm their blood, their bones. Free folk safe to sleep on the right side of the Wall spilling blood in fever, thanks.

Soon, there is blood enough on Jon’s cheek to cover a cave-wall in fingerprint figures. Still, it rises: the fight, the noise. Rises, rises, _rises_ —

“Enough.”

He stills. The hall falls silent.

“They are not beasts or savages or _dogs_.” Spits that nightmare word through her teeth. “They are my friends. My protectors.” There is ice in her voice, fire in her hair. “You’ll treat them as your equals, your _allies_ — or find yourselves friendless in the North once more.”

*

Later, the ice is in her eyes: glowing as she looks at him in the dim-lit chamber she has dragged him to.

Angry. Mm — with _him_. Gods in her gaze again. Gods of war and blood and shields of weirwood hefted taut as her cheeks. There is a stirring in his belly: sharp, hot.

“It is different here,” she says as he burns. “The monsters don’t move in the dark. They move within the skins of men who’ll smile one moment, spit poison the next.” Nostrils flare: fine, moon-pale — like flutes of clay pinched by a craftsman’s thumbs. “Our friends are in the mountains, Jon. Until we find them, we cannot afford to make foes here.”

Listens, scowls at his feet.

“He touched you,” rumbles it. “He should not have touched you, _edzèa_.” 

A breath between her teeth. It hisses like hot metal dipped into a stream. He looks up from his feet, rolls his eyes to meet her own. There is a flicker in her temple: a little heart beating beneath her skin. He smiles and the ice melts — just a little.

“Knight shouldn’t touch a queen like that,” he murmurs. “Mm — or like _this_.”

She looks at him. Her chin is up and the ivory-knife of her jaw cuts at the heat in his belly, twists it sharper. Runs his palm down her back now. His fingertips dip beneath her furs, slip up to rest on the warm skin between her shoulder-blades. That breath again: white-hot metal shining in the water.

“You are not a knight.”

His fingers swirl the spokes of her ribcage now. “I am not a knight.”

“Mine,” she says. “You are mine, Jon.”

He catches up his name with a kiss. Anger in her still — it makes her movements bold. Fingers on his belt, wrenching. Palm wrapped round his cock and he is buckling at his knees, swiping at bits of furs and leathers till he finds the bare press of her thighs, bloom of heat to warm his fingers.

Teases the edges of her; she pins his wrist to her cunt — moans as he brushes a knuckle where he would like to put his tongue. Burns him with the ice in her eyes as she opens her legs for him, tightens her palm enough to make him grunt.

“I decide who touches me,” she ebbs now on a frayed whimper. “Remember that.” Catches at his lip with her teeth, pulls on it — _hard_. “I could have broken that old knight’s fingers if I wanted to.”

“I know it,” he breathes. “But I’d make to break his neck first all the same.”

Mm, he would. He will — always. Because she is in him now. In his bones, his blood, buried deep in his being. Her skin, her scars: all his. He will break the hand of any man who dares reach out to touch what is hers, what is _his_. One and the same. Always.

Doesn’t say it. Doesn’t need to say it. She sees it in his eyes, tastes it on his tongue, reads the truth of it in every dip and line of his body moving in time with her own. Her teeth playing at her own lip now. He rolls it free with a thumb. Groans to the gods when she parts her lips, sucks him up with her tongue.

“I need you,” she gasps, nipping at the tip of his thumb. “ _Now_ , Jon.”

There is no grove here. No cradle carved of weirwood. Just a dim-lit, dusty storeroom half-open to the night. Sacks of grain slumped against the walls, sagging barrels stacked to the ceiling. A rough-hewn table, a cellarer’s ledger spread across its top.

Neat numbers etched on the prim-pressed pages, counted stock, tallies, painfully-straight lines — drowned in more spilt ink than a bucket of sand could ever hope to blot as the two of them crash back onto the tabletop.

“Jon,” she breathes. “Jon.”

Thighs bowed wide and he is sliding between them. Her cunt is something hot, something holy — his teeth catching at her skin as he sags down onto the dips and rises of her body. Sinks into her, mouth on her brow. Her fingers clutching rivets in the furs blanketing his back, hips canted, urging — _asking_.

“Sansa,” he tries to gasp before he begins to move. “It’s good?”

 _This_ , he means. _My hands. My skin. My body inside your own_.

Nothing but a tumble of curses, a word-sigh at his ear, thighs tightening him to their cradle. He waits even so, the whimper she makes a star-burst between his ribs.

Rasp of her hair against his cheek as she nods: once, twice — and the world is warm and good. He moves; she sighs, smiles. The ink dries its ruin beneath them. The little southron knight is forgotten in a blaze, a blush, a bloom of holy heat.

*

Mance does not forget. He boxes Jon’s ears, makes him howl like a wolf-pup till they are a mess of hands slapping and hopping feet. Laughter, too.

“Remember what I asked of you, lad.”

Another swipe; this time he ducks. “I remember.”

“Don’t act the rabid dog, then.” Mance jerks his chin. “Be a wolf — like her.”

Laughter slips away. There is blood on Mance’s cheek; but it does not belong to him. Jon spits the salt from his mouth, smiles as he takes the old man’s arm, pushes up from where he is sprawled on his arse in the snow. An arm around his shoulders. They turn to watch the battle-dance behind them.

“You taught her well,” says Mance. “She fights like a spearwife.”

Grumbles — _shield-maiden_ , _warrior-queen_ — but he does not say it. He is busy watching the rhythm of the dance. Battle braids, a crown of copper. Crows and king’s men alike standing with open mouths as she spins and steps, drops a knee to a heaving chest.

“Look at him tremble,” he rumbles now. “Like a willow in a winter storm.”

Her sword is a slash of ice in the weak sunlight. He finds he cannot look at the weirwood shield she hefts without remembering her bare before him in that god-lit grove. His mouth waters. That stirring in his belly again: sharp, hot.

“Yield,” shouts the knight named Godry — and there is wonder in his voice. “I yield.”

She says nothing, only lifts up to her feet. Brushes snow from her furs. Hefts her shield carved of weirwood, looks down at the knight as she waits for him to pick up his own. Ghost prowls a circle close to her heels, shoulders low.

“Jon,” warns Mance. “Call that wolf off.”

Looks at his queen, shakes his head. “Wolf won’t move unless she tells him to.”

“Another bout?” she asks as the big man lumbers back to his feet. “I promise not to hurt you, ser.”

Says it soft enough — but the steel-glitter of her eyes cuts sharp as the ivory-knife of her jaw. Her mouth is perked up in a little smile. Jon aches to put his thumb in the cradle of it, trace the curve of her lip. Battle braids, a crown of copper. Watches, smiles. Aches to fight beside her — _for_ her — even as she puts the tin-man on his back again.

*

It is a different world they move in now; but they find their own rhythms within it, even so. He listens, learns — he keeps his hands away from noses, necks. Fingers might itch to break a few. Carves a bow instead, a knife with a black blade. Makes something pretty from a new-stripped pelt dark as that dragonglass dagger he keeps in his belt.

Stone-faced thing, the king that rules this patch of ice. But he is no fool. Eyes like iron — blue-black, brittle — taking in the mess of that ruined ledger when the steward put it on the table as the wildlings and tin-men first sat to talk.

Pretty blush, a fire-prickle in Sansa’s cheek to see it: those ink-blots they made together in that dim-lit, dusty storeroom. King called Stannis did not seem to see it — the mess, the blush that twisted its heat deep in Jon’s belly — he scowled at the pages, spoke a sentence of the shipment that book recorded.

Half a moon ago, that was. Now the storerooms are stacked. Higher, higher. The smiths work bare-chested, hammering. Sansa’s breath is all around: a hiss of hot metal dipped into a stream. Even the giants are busy. Hauling barrels into the tunnel: crushed stone, rubble, water — till the Wall is shut, frozen-sealed.

Wun Wun dips a rock out from somewhere, waits with the wolf as Sansa finishes the steps of her battle-dance. Shines it up till it gleams like the steel-glitter of her eyes, the sunlit smile she gifts him as he puts the boulder at her feet. The giant stamps his own, simpers as he makes the earth shake beneath the snow piled deep.

“That giant,” comes a voice: timid, quiet. “What do you call him?”

It is the steward at Jon’s elbow — the steward who drew those painfully-straight lines on the prim-pressed pages of that ledger drowned in spilt ink. The steward who is at his elbow more oft than not, silent or stammering, always there. Grumbles to see him there again.

“He is Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun.” Lets the words rattle off his tongue like old stones breaking. “Wun Wun the Weak, some call him.”

The steward frowns. “Why?”

“Because my queen makes him that way.” Jon walks off — laughs when he hears footsteps: thud, thud. “Sam the Shadow, the free folk call you.”

Ragged breath just behind him. “Why?”

“Because you follow me like one.”

“Well, if you would just — ”

Jon’s laughter turns back to breaking stones: a grumble — impatient. “I have told you I don’t want to speak to your magic-man.”

“He is a _maester_ , not a _mag_ — ”

Fingers itching again; but he keeps his hand away from Sam’s nose, neck. Holds it up in the air instead: palm-out to cut some quiet as he looks on past the steward’s shoulder.

Catches the steel-glitter of her eyes as she nods at him to come to her. Moves off toward her, his shadow — thud, thud — close behind him.

*

King called Stannis pours wine but does not drink it. There is no need for guest right — bread and salt was got half a moon ago — still, the king offers a cup to Sansa. She nods, takes it. Puts it on the tabletop, unsipped. Her fingertips trace a parchment beside it.

“Another letter,” says Stannis as she picks it up. “From your lord husband.” He pushes another scroll toward her. “And here — another of your father’s old bannermen refusing to bend the knee to me.” He works his jaw. “I have no friends, and fewer allies.”

Paper crackles as she flattens it beneath her palm. “How many?”

“House Umber,” he says. “Half of it.”

She looks up. “That is — ”

“Too few.” He grinds his teeth, shadows darkening his eyes. “House Mormont refuses me. Wyman Manderly arrested my envoy. Executed him. Hornwood, Tallhart, Cerwyn… they dance to the Bolton boy like leaves in the wind.”

Her lip lifts: half a snarl. “Because he holds Winterfell.”

“Because they think their cause is sworn to the wife he claims was stolen from him.” Stannis is stone-faced; but the shadows are gone from his eyes. “You.”

Red woman stirs in her seat like flames shifting. “The last Stark left to the Northmen.”

“He knows I am here,” says Sansa. “Why does he wait?”

Jon grips the edge of the table. Picks at it with his thumbnail. His fingers itch to break a nose, a neck — stain the snow with that bastard’s blood.

“A bird flies up from the south, a band of knights carried on its wings — fresh where his own men are freezing. That is what Ramsay Bolton waits for.” Flush of embers, the way those red eyes glow. “I have seen it in the flames.”

King called Stannis grinds his teeth. “It would suit us both to be rid of him, Lady Stark.”

“You do not have the men to fight him,” she says quietly. “And my allies are sworn to him, it seems.”

Mance leans forward a little now. “No. They are sworn to a lie, my lady.”

“Call your banners.” Jon crushes a splinter beneath his thumb. “They will come, _edzèa_.”

She looks at him. He looks at her — the tabletop tempts them, even as they turn from it with colour in their cheeks. There is a flicker in her temple: a little heart beating beneath her skin. He smiles and she has to bite her lip to stem her own. Puts her hand on his shoulder instead, flexes her fingertips full of him as she gets to her feet.

“I will call the banners,” she says — steel-glitter of her eyes set steady as the grip she keeps on him. “All of them.”

They lift their cups — hers hefted high like a sword, a shield carved of weirwood — and drink deep the wine of war.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We moving a little faster now, oh yes we are. Forgive me the mini half a moon time-jump midway through; but Sansa had to have a bit of space to beat those pesky knights down and assert herself in a new environment, okay. Stannis has not had the battles in this au that he engaged with by the end of ADWD as — without Jon Snow as LC of the NW — he simply does not have _any_ northern backing, save for Mors Umber and his little lot of men camped near to Winterfell. Enter stage left: Sansa Stark and her rag-tag army of wildlings, yaaaas queen. You just _know_ Ramsay is sweating. So, the banners are called . . . but will they be answered? I’m excited to find out! I hope you are, too — and that you’re not too bored of me yet because let me tell you I am _living_ for this verse still, forever, always and I really treasure having lovely readers to share it with so thank you, honeys. ❤️
> 
>  **p.s.** ‘I promise not to hurt you, lad’ is lifted from Godry trying to provoke Jon into sparring with him in _A Dance with Dragons_ Chapter 3: Jon I and _yes_ Sansa is def throwing it back at him like gtfo her rumbly-grumbly-mumbly man thank you please x


	21. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Her heart is in the bailey, fighting with a smile on his face. It takes her breath to see him moving as the gods made him to move.’
> 
> time for a Sansa POV . . . get ready! 🍓

Now they are alone she lets herself tremble. Just a bit at first: a little tremor stirring the surface of an ice-lake. Then the ice cracks clean, starts to drift.

“I see you shiver,” he says softly. “Come here, _edzèa_.” 

His heat on her, around her. She turns her cheek against his chest. The beat of his heart echoes the blood blooming star-bursts behind the lids of her eyes. Keeps them closed, burrows into his body as his chin leans a rest to the top of her head.

“Jon?”

Grumbles: low, soft. “Hmm?”

“I am here with you.”

“You are here with me.”

She takes another steadying breath. “Wherever we may go?”

“Wherever we may go.” A beat of quiet: crackle of firewood, shift of furs. “You are always here with me.”

His fingertips skim the curve of her spine beneath her furs. Like grasses grown long on a mountainside, rippling silver as the sun catches at their stems. Her eyes are closed but she sees the glade they stopped in. Half a lifetime ago; but that frostfire, she keeps it still with the flint-knife in her belt, pressed and dried and hers to hold. Like he is — always.

“They will come,” he rumbles. “They will come, _edzèa_.”

Stand and sway like that till she falls asleep beneath the sweeping shapes of the fingertips on her back. Makes a grumble of her own when he lifts her, lays her down to sleep beside him. Feels his smile in the kiss he presses to her brow.

*

Like the ravens that call it home, the rookery beckons her back by day and dark. She finds herself climbing its twisting stair, remembering another set of stone steps worn smooth by Maester Luwin’s endless journeys to and fro. Frowns to think of that: here, now.

Winterfell is a faded thought to her. She knows every bit of it — every cobble and courtyard and candlestick — but she does not let her mind look in on it. Not now, not yet. Hazy is how she keeps it: a bluster of snowflakes filling the skies, looking for a place to land. Bites her lip. Wants Jon’s fingertips on her skin again, soothing her to sleepy quiet.

“My lady.”

It is the steward who speaks now: the steward called Sam. Blinks at him, lets her face soften to a smile. Always in his books, fingers ink-stained; despite herself, she has come to like him. Tips her head to the half-empty perches.

“Anything?”

“No,” he says quietly. “But sometimes letters get lost or — _or_ the ravens lose their way.”

Her eyes slip shut for a heartbeat. “There are no letters lost. Just unwritten. Unsent.”

“There are murmurings amongst the brothers that your letters should never have even flown from this place.” A clink of chain-links, a tap of a blackthorn cane. “That their rookery should not have been used to sound the drums of war.”

“Murmurings?”

Listens to that blackthorn cane: tap, tap. “The Night’s Watch takes no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms, after all.”

“Did they murmur when they welcomed a king into their hall?” Her lip lifts: half a snarl. “Seems to me your brothers chose to play a part long before I wrote a single letter.”

Her tongue feels heavy. Her head hurts. Stone and speech all around — it is too solid here. Fixed, unyielding. Wit stacked up. All she wants is air, bark, soil, salt. But she cannot have that, cannot go back to a world of space and light and words that do not slip and twist and barb. Not now, not yet.

Breathes: slow, soft — steady as those fingertip-shapes she aches for.

“I do not sound the drums of war gladly, maester.” She turns away from the narrow window, looks at the old man with his walking stick. “But they must beat and ring and shout.” Nostrils flare, her lip trembles. “I have a home to fight for. Monsters to kill — people to defend from the dark.”

Little thing, that maester. Small, shrunken; but his face gleams with a joy near bright as the copper-link in his chain.

“I know it,” he says calmly. “That is why I sent your letters.”

She makes to say her thanks. He waves her words off kindly, wrinkled brow furrowing as he moves toward her with a tap of his blackthorn cane.

“The shadow always at your side,” he says now. “I would speak to him. See his face.”

Looks at the maester’s clouded eyes, the set of them. “Jon?”

“Yes,” he whispers. “Jon Snow.”

Frowns to hear that. They do not have names like that, the free folk. They have boasts and trappings of some past-won glory. Names that mock them for telling tall tales, being suckled by giants. Names that strike fear into an enemy’s heart — roared long and loud into the hills. They choose their names, heft them proudly. Their names are their own.

Snow is not a name that belongs to Jon. Call him the Boy when he is sullen, or the Inked Man for his back: the swirls on it, the shapes, tattoos picked out in blues and greens. Not _Snow_. He is not the white that cakes their boots, freezes furs solid to their shoulders. He is something more — something better. He is the blood that beats inside her.

 _Jon_ , she almost says. _He is just Jon_. But she does not. She takes the little maester’s arm, feels his fingers flex there as she leads him through the narrow doorway out of the rookery.

*

Her heart is in the bailey, fighting with a smile on his face. It takes her breath to see him moving as the gods made him to move.

Flows like water, the rhythm of his battle-dance; his sword a stroke of storm-light breaking through the cloud of shield and shout and a hefted forearm signing _yield_. He rolls his shoulders as the beaten knight pants on the churned-up snow. Big muscles of his chest rising slightly faster — like they do when he is inside her.

Smiles to herself. She is hungry always. Not for bread or meat or mead: for _him_. Even now as the sun skates shadows on the stone, she wants to catch him up. Feel the hard strength of his palms. The cords of muscle coiling beneath his skin. Her mouth waters, her mind wanders.

 _Would you kill for me_ , she wants to ask sometimes when her world is narrowed to his cock, to the naked heat of him, the graze of his tongue on her nipple. But she doesn’t need to ask it. Knows he would. Knows he’d bathe in Bolton blood — _drown_ in it if it meant that she’d stay free of it. Knows he would do it gladly.

“How does he fight?”

It is Sam who answers the maester’s question: wonder in his tone.

“Like a hero,” he says. “He doesn’t look tired — even though Slynt is puffing like a bullfrog.”

The name is an ice-prickle down her spine: a chill that scours to the pits of her bones, sharpens her thoughts to focus. Her belly tightens, her ribs close like a fist.

“Janos Slynt,” she says carefully. “He is here?”

Sam nods, points. “He’s the one Jon is fighting, my lady.”

“Forgive me, maester.” Her breath is caught in her throat; she is a storm suddenly, aching to split the skies with light. “I will bring my shadow to meet you another day.”

Moves off. She is deaf but for a roar in her ears: a thread of memory, blood-beat. Cheering, laughing — her eyes salt-hot with tears as she cried, screamed. She is not crying now. Her fingers are a ripple on the knife in her belt. Every step she takes feels made of air, floating on fury. Before she blinks again, she is in the bailey and the first of the monsters she will face is there in front of her.

Savage, the way she moves now. Quick. Fistful of an ear, foot to the back of a knee; she watches the man crumple to the snow. Jon is there in the space he leaves, practice-sword lifted for a killing blow. Barely sees him: the furrow in his brow, her name on his lips. She drops to her haunches, knife in her hand, pricking the soft flesh of that jowly chin.

“You lifted my father’s head by his hair,” she spits. “Let the crowds bay at it.”

Janos Slynt croaks out a curse. There are hands on her shoulders, crows screeching for her to drop her knife. She digs in tighter, the voice on her tongue some strange, venomous thing she half-recognises as her own.

“I do not forget,” she seethes. “I do not forgive.”

Fingers prising her knife from her hand. Sansa snarls, fights — and her wolves are there. Ghost at her side, teeth closing on a gauntleted wrist. Jon. _Jon_. A whirl onto her feet and she sees him. God made flesh, some wild warrior-king. His hand closed beneath that jowly chin; Janos Slynt held in the air, feet darting like fish through reeds.

A shout, a roar — chaos.

Like the hall a moon ago, the way the bailey erupts. Tormund some blaze of flame bulling his weight at a man’s middle. Clatter of metal, the caw of a raven somewhere. The wine of war is in her blood and it burns — it _burns_. But Mance is at her elbow now, shouting sense into her ear and then she is shouting, too.

“Enough,” rings out from her throat: loud, leathery. “I — _enough_.”

Drops to her knees amidst a chaos of her making. Her fingers find the flint-knife thrown from her hand into the snow. She catches it up, slips it back into her belt. Blinks as the sun becomes a shadow.

Looks up into the glitter of Jon’s eyes and puts her hand to the blood on his cheek as he kneels before her. His fingers wrap into the hair bound at her nape. She strokes his face, whimpers his name. He puts his thumb gently to her lips. They look at each other.

“I will give you his skull,” he rumbles. “His heart if you want it — still beating in my hand.”

Their brows are pressed together. She wants to claw at him, kiss him, push him down onto his back and make the big muscles of his chest rise faster. But the haze is lifting now and she is tired — a bone-deep tiredness that makes her duck her face into his neck, burrow her breath into his skin. Hears him grumble to keep them all away, chase them to the shadows as he holds her on the snow. Knows that she is safe in his arms. Always.

*

“What was that?”

Her voice is quiet, soft: another ribbon weaving with the woodsmoke peppering the air of Mance’s tent. Flush of sparks as a prodded log collapses into the firepit. Sharp brown eyes meeting her stare as flames crackle, burst. 

“Bloodlust,” says Mance. “You’ve a taste for it now, my lady.”

“Will I ever sate it?”

Soft breath through his nose. “Aye. You will.”

It is just the two of them in the smoky tent. Jon is busy chasing Janos Slynt — his back heavy with arms, armour, all his worldly goods in a dark-dyed pack — toward the gate, the road, away from here. Dalla is fetching water. The babe lays asleep in the furs beside Sansa. She runs her fingertip across his soft, plump cheek. Wonders.

“Jon,” she says at last. “Who is he?”

Another little huff of laughter through his nose. “Jon? He is your good little spearwife.”

“He is different from the others. He can read, write.”

Little shrug now. “He’s no green boy — I schooled him as much I was able to.” Stirs the flames with a stick, keeps his eyes on them. “Books. Legends. The art of war. Been in raids, commanded battles. Can argue well as he can growl. He’s half a prince.” Gives a lazy shrug, throws her a smile. “Something like that.”

“Every bit as brave as a prince from a song, that much is true. A hero.” Softens her voice as the babe stirs in his sleeping-skins, strokes his cheek. “Fierce as Tormund. Thick-skinned as any warrior… but something different flows in his blood. The wild, yes.” She frowns, keeps her fingertips gentle. “The wolf — that as well.”

“What are you asking me, Sansa Stark of Winterfell?”

She looks up at Mance. “You stole him?”

“I found him.”

“Where?”

“At the river-bend.”

Flicker of weariness behind her eyes. “ _Where_ , Mance?”

“Within sight of the Wall.”

Beat of silence: crackle of firewood, shift of furs. “A babe — a boy?”

“Squalling little thing, he was. Red-cheeked with fury at the world he’d been born into.” Mance stares at the flames, a ghost of a smile on his sharp-hinged cheeks. “He was wrapped in furs. Laid upon a rise beside the river. I gave my word that I would raise him.” Lift of a brow, smile trembling for half a breath. “Keep him as my ward — if there is such a thing as that in the lands of always winter.”

Keeps her eyes on the babe sleeping soft, sound. “Gave your word to whom?”

“I think you know, Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

“I — I don’t understand.”

“You said it so yourself,” says Mance quietly. “The wild is in his blood — the wolf, too.”

There are words on her tongue, thoughts long-faded threatening to spill in light and colour: a bluster of them, looking for a place to land. But they are swept away in a storm of snowflakes as the tent-drapes are wrenched open, as voices sound without. Somewhere, a raven caws — then the wolves begin their singing.

*

Her heart is in the bailey and her head is empty of words. Jon — just _Jon_ — that is what he is. Now, always. He is the blood that beats inside her, the growl that is smoking low in her throat to see crows and king’s men squawking. His fingers find her hip soon as he spots her, pull her tight into his side.

“Should write the Lord Commander, turf them out.”

Another voice ringing in agreement. “No place for wildlings here.”

“Can’t go slicing at our brother’s neck like that!”

“Your brother is gone,” snarls Jon. “Chased off down that stony road you call king.”

“Good riddance,” one shouts as another cries, “Ruled by savages now — is that the way of it?”

“King’s men or queen’s — they are no friends to the Watch. Only mouths to feed.”

“No friends. No allies. No banners for all the ravens thrown to fly her fucking letters.”

Like the storm inside her is growing and soon the ache to split the skies with light is real. The world is white: a blizzard, a bluster of snowflakes coming thick and fast as they find a place to land. Her cheeks sting with the cold of it; but she is warm with Jon at her side. Her fingers on the dagger in her belt. Mouth flooding with water: salt-hot. Bloodlust — and she will dance to the beat it sets low in her chest. Feels Jon stir, breathe the same beat.

“Here,” he says as the snowstorm skates around them. “With me.”

“Here,” she murmurs as the wind makes feathers of her hair. “With you.”

Chaos again, might be — but the two of them together can cut a way to the very heart of it. Throw it on its arse, string some sense from it. Two wolves — red, white — at the middle of a winter storm; but she does not tremble now. Her jaw is tight, her teeth clenched. She wants to tip back her head and howl. Thinks she must have, because a ringing clatters with the snow swirling on the air: sharp, shrill.

“Look,” shouts Val through the noise. “Damn you — _look_.”

They turn. King’s men, crows, free folk spinning on their heels away from the fight and to the gate. Shadows there hulking between the snow-blurred posts, a dull drumming, that ringing on the air again.

Sansa narrows her eyes to the sting of the snowflakes till she sees them — banners in the wind, stirring like the hope in her heart.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
>   
> _God_ , I am ready to take back Winterfell. Is anyone else ready to take back Winterfell? Please say yes — because we’re about to bloody well do just that thank you please! There was a _lot_ in this chapter and I will not apologise because I know that you my faithful few my absolute honey-sunshine _babies_ will be cheering for it right by my side: from Sansa being soothed to sleep to her absolutely fucking WRECKING Janos Slynt fuck u bullfrog our queen ain’t _playing_. Wish-fulfilment to the highest degree and I am **#proudofit**. Also wanted a little nod to the NW mutiny as in the books hence them being all antsy at the end. But the banners! The banners are here . . . and who might they bring??? We’ll find out, won’t we! _Soon_. Thanks **so** much for reading if u here doing just that: you make my day. Love and light, my dears. ✨❤️
> 
>  **p.s.** you are _so_ welcome for that there bonus Rollo-gif of our boi Jon being like brb hold my axe I’ve got a bullfrog to strangle x also yes the chapter-count has gone up by one don’t **@** me x


	22. Driftwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “Hear that?” he says as the gods stir the creaking camp with their breath. “You make them tremble, _edzèa_. Mm — and me.”

They come in droves.

Houses great and small. Doves on banners — a twist of white on blue. Giants, too. Old oaks. Lightning bolts blazing against a purple sky. Tall, dark shadow: a bear in the woods. Pine trees with blue-green leaves. A black axe tipped in silver. Thistles scratching at a yellow field; three buckets — brown on blue.

Men of the sky, the forest, the mountains, the earth, the sea.

Air, bark, soil, salt.

“Impossible,” says a tin-man rattling pale, cold. “Do they answer our call at last?”

“No,” says Jon. “It is my queen they come for — not your king.”

Savage pride stirring in his belly: sharp, hot. Way she steps out from his side — a streak of fire in a world of white. The wolf at her hip, shoulders taut as the ivory-knife of her jaw tipped up into the snowstorm. Like it comes from her: this flurry of light and air and ice, this blizzard swirling up as late autumn butterflies drunk on nectar.

Fingers tingling. He wants to tip back his head and howl, find a shield and beat his fist to it. Dip a thumb into a rabbit’s blood, paint rune-marks on his face — on her face, too. Let the old gods see the prayer upon her skin. Let them answer it with the heads and hearts of those who used to haunt her dreams. Let _him_ answer it beside them.

“Lord Wull,” she says now, dreamlike. “You have left the mountains.”

A big man steps up. “Left the mountains long ago.” His voice is booming: a bucket-drop into a well of echoes. “My clansmen have been busy winning back the North… for the Ned’s daughter.”

“First Flints, too.”

Thistles gleam: green, yellow. “Norreys, as well.”

“Liddle and Harclay both.”

White dove moves; Jon sees that it is a knife twisting on the blue. “Burleys, too.”

“You fight for me?” she asks, looks, counts. “All of you?”

Big man nods fiercely. “I am old. This will be my last winter.” Shakes his shield: buckets on it bobbing. “But I will bathe in Bolton blood before I die. I will see the last Stark safely home.”

Row by row, the men behind the Wull drop to their knees. Fingers stitched round spears and axes and swords and shields, banner-poles creaking in the wind. Heads bowed, snow-blown. Except for one face: crooked up to look at the fire-haired queen. Fire-haired queen who puts a hand to her mouth, gasps.

Jon is at her side in half a heartbeat. His fingers spanning the small of her back. Feels the tremble run through her like a seam cracking across an ice-lake. But she is smiling even as she shivers — smiling even as tears freeze to her cheeks.

*

Boiled leathers, tawny hair. Bearskin cloak too big for him. He is gaunt and ghostly; but there is still a little iron in his eyes. Jon weighs him up: wary, wolf-like.

Sansa fusses him — the wraith — till Jon is gone from soft grumbling to scowling each time Tormund tries to make a jest, pokes his shoulder, laughing. Mance calls him the Boy and tells him to fix his face. Growls. Keeps his frown.

At his side, the wolf sits. Jon smiles now. Narrowed eyes of sun-glare, soft grumble low in his throat — the wolf is wary, too.

Crows ousted from their own hall. Tents sprung up in the bailey to shelter out the snowstorm; but now houses great and small crowd the benches, tear black bread, feast. Fire crackles, pig turns on a spit. Eat and drink till they are full. There is grease on Tormund’s beard: shining in the fireflame as he laughs with the Wull.

“I like him.” Laugh like thunder: brass-bell sounding loud and clear. “I _like_ you, Big Bucket — why did we fight each other all these years?”

Big man hefts his bucket of ale. “Bloody scouts stealing my scraps!” Sloshes his cup toward the wraith. “You’re as bad as the ironmen. Ent that right, lad?”

“Iron, is he?” Tormund skates up a fiery brow. “That little one there?”

The Wull nods. “Up in the hills we say that autumn kisses you, but winter fucks you hard.” Knocks his cup to Tormund’s at that. “Been telling him this is only autumn’s kiss — still, he’s spent most the year shivering like a new-shorn lamb.”

“How did it come to be?”

Steel-glitter of her voice cuts at the edges of laughter roaring loud within the hall. Brushing at the beams with mirth; Tormund wiping happy tears from his cheeks. Slowly, jests fade and jokers thump down into their seats again. Quiet simmers, sits.

“You will tell the tale, squid.” Name is not sharp: slips soft from between the Wull’s ale-slick teeth. “As you told it to me when first we found you.”

The wraith stirs, shifts — then smiles as Sansa puts a hand onto his arm. Licks his lips, looks into the bone-cup of broth cradled in his lap.

“We escaped Winterfell, my lady and me.” His fingers skitter like black-knife shadows across the cup. “We ran through snow, trees. There were hounds behind us — I could hear them baying. We were cold, scared, waded into a river to throw our scent.” The broth stirs as he shivers. “Ran and ran for days, might be — till the forest thinned out and the Bay of Ice took the place of trees.”

Jon imagines it. Chase, hunt. Hounds snuffling and scenting. Soles run ragged: bleeding, broken. Cold waves crashing on black sand — wrecked cogs, scraps of silk, an ironman with lungs full of blood and water floating a lifetime past. Wonders how his queen left that violent shore. The hall wonders, too. Big man clears his throat.

“He floated you out to sea,” says the Wull. “Couldn’t find a bit of driftwood big enough for the both of you — so he stayed behind.” Huffs a breath. “Tried to fight us off when we spied him on the shore.”

Tormund eyes the wraith. “Must’ve gone toward the Gorge, _gǫh_ — your little raft.”

“We sent a longship or two to follow,” says Big Bucket. “But you were gone. Lost.”

Beat of quiet washes through the hall, sinks that booming bucket-voice into the water of the well. Jon stares into the flames; wolf shifts at his side, breath coming out as the faintest lowing to drift with the woodsmoke. He puts his hand between the bone-white ears, shares his silence.

“I was lost,” she says now, dreamlike. “Then I was found.”

Jon looks up at the softness of her voice. Finds her eyes on his own: licking bright as blue flame chasing at darkening air. Her smile shimmers. He drinks it in, feels as he does when they spar together — breathless, bursting with light. Teeth part, tongue trembles.

“ _Edzèa_.”

Does not mean to say it. But it twists there with the wolf’s lowing, the woodsmoke: a prayer drifting up on threads of blue-grey air. Thinks of that chase again, the hunt. Remembers how her dainty shoes were worn down to nothing when he found her at the river-bend. Little scars on her soles from stones, sticks. Has kissed each one before. Will kiss each one again when the moon is high and fire burning low.

Mm, wants to _now_ — even as Big Bucket frowns, jerks his chin. “Who is he?”

“My friend,” she says to _that_. “My heart.”

A little murmur, then — “What is his name?”

“Jon,” she answers. “He is Jon, the _nyeupe n_ _ǫ_ _di_.”

Shiver on his skin to hear that stone-rattle pass her lips. Free folk lift their cups to it as king’s men scratch their heads. Jon — he is motionless, words turned to driftwood on the tide of his tongue. Can only gaze at her, smile. Heart squeezing as if her fingers are sunk inside his ribs. Mm. Might be they are. Fingertip, thumb pressed where his blood beats till the rhythm of it in his veins is a song of all her echoes.

*

Moon comes out: bit by bit. Climbs till it is high up in the storm-strung sky. Fire burns low, snow blankets the sleeping camp in quiet. He breaks it with a kiss: salt-hot, slippery.

“I am the _nyeupe n_ _ǫ_ _di_ , hmm?”

Feels the tremble pass from her thighs into his cheeks. “Mm. _Yes_. Wun Wun has been teaching me more words.”

“Old Tongue,” he says — and flicks his own. “You speak it well now.”

Smiles as she tries to speak some now, because she cannot. Her back is arched up off the sleeping-skins they share. Fingers knotted into his hair. Lets her pull him closer. Thighs spreading wide as he puts his palms to them, growls softly to hear her moan his name. _Kissed by fire_ , she calls it, this: the prayer he works into her body whenever she lets him kneel, worship. Flat on his belly now — but he has never felt more holy.

“They will hear you.”

But she is deaf to him, rising up like a sea-wave. He has a hand pressed to her belly. She finds it with her fingers, drags it up till his palm covers her breast. Feels her nipple grow harder, brushes a thumb across it and grumbles as she keens. Fingers on his wrist now — pulling, _pulling_ — till his mouth is torn from her cunt and he tastes the wine from dinner on her tongue. Drinks it: honey, salt.

“The morrow,” she is saying. “We will march.”

Growls: low, soft. “With the Wull. Hmm — and the wraith.”

“Tormund told me.” Her smile parts their kiss. “I did not believe it.”

“Believe what?”

Sparkles like a fine, rare jewel: that smile. “That Jon the Boy growls when he is jealous.”

“Jealous,” he rumbles. “I am jealous?”

“You are, Jon! You _are_.” Breaks to jewel-bright shades of laughter now; lifts a brow at him, daring. “Say his name, then.”

“Not jealous of that bucket man,” he says, glowering. “Not jealous of the wr— _Theon_.”

They laugh and roll, his fingertips a flame-tickle across her ribs. Shrieking, squirming — then her smile turns serious. She holds his face in her hands, kisses him till he is panting. Draws back, touches her brow to his own.

“What we have,” she whispers. “It is more than words.” Her hips roll as he traces feathers on her side. “It is like the stars and the moon, the sky that holds them up.” Drowns in her eyes: sea-ice, let him sink beneath it. “You are not a man to me, Jon — you are something more. Something better.”

She wants him inside her, he can tell. Little shimmy she gives with her hips like something skittish needing soothing. He strokes her belly, feels the muscles tremble beneath his hand — then slots a grip onto her hips, lifts her, gives her what she wants. He always will.

“Everything,” he rumbles as she sighs, _sinks_. “That is what you are, _edzèa_.”

Her lips move against his cheekbone. “The Wull, Theon, all the banners that turn in the wind — it makes no matter. I could not march without you at my side, Jon.”

“I will be at your side until the gods take the breath from my lungs.”

“They will never take it,” she breathes into his skin. “I won’t let them.”

A beat of quiet: creak of the wind against the tent, rustle of furs — rasp of red-warm hair as she skates her mouth across his cheek, presses a kiss to his lips. He smiles.

“Hear that?” he says as the gods stir the creaking camp with their breath. “You make them tremble, _edzèa_. Mm — and me.”

Goddess sunk across his hipbones, that is what she is. Her hair a cloak of fire as the embers glow and shadows dance. Smiles at him: slow — and that blizzard is in his blood now, swirling into his belly like late autumn butterflies drunk on nectar. Mouth at his ear, her words pulling a moan half-shattered and gritty from his throat.

“You are the _nyeupe n_ _ǫ_ _di_ ,” she murmurs: low, soft. “Mm, my white wolf.”

*

He does not want to leave the tent. Does not sleep. Crooked on an elbow watching her most the night. Presses his cheek flush to the pillow next to her own as the world goes from black to grey. His fingertips dip and skate the air like feathers, never quite touching the edges of her face. Maps it, even so — _feels_ it with his eyes as well he could his thumb, his tongue. She shifts, gives a little sigh; there is water in his mouth to hear it.

Wakes slowly, as is her way. Eyes screwing tighter-shut then blinking slowly open. Shifts her hips. Slowly. Furrow in her brow as she looks about herself. Slowly. Like something hung in amber, the way she moves before the sun is fully risen. Hint of confusion in her eyes. Clears soon as she sees him — always does.

“Time to march,” he says.

She groans softly. “Not yet.”

“Not yet,” murmurs it soft as the fingers he is trailing between her legs. “You are sure?” Laughs now as she grumbles at him, cants her hips, looks at him: _more_. “The Wull will be waiting — and the wraith.”

Tips back her head. “Mm. _Theon_.”

“I will growl again if you say his name like that.” Lips on her throat, licks up beneath her ear as she laughs. Quickens his fingers, makes her keen. “Hmm. They call him a killer — the men with giants on their banners. Bears, too.”

Little laugh winds down to a whine. “He is broken. I do not think he knows what he did.” She gasps now, tugs at his earlobe. “Or who he is.”

“Killer. That is who, _what_.”

“I will not take his life — not when he helped save mine.”

On his elbows now, her body bracketed by his own. Fire in her eyes to match the heat she guides him into. Tangles his fingers into her hair, levels her face till he can dip a kiss to her lips, her cheek. Her nails streak the ink-marks of his back, dig in to make him move. He pushes: slow, deep.

“You think there is more to it.”

Nodding now, tide-lines in her brow. “I know there is.”

“I will not break his neck then,” he rumbles. “Yet.”

Folded at her waist, mouth open. He dives to get at it. Milk, honey, salt — stone-rattle on her tongue as she moans her name for him. His hand cradling her skull: a palm-span, fingers stroking softly at her hair. She rolls her hips, fingertips making feathers down the muscles rippling in his sides. Pulling taut now, too, as her nails nip at his skin.

“There are truths that river made me forget,” she breathes. “But I am remembering.”

Puts his thumb to her chin, tips it up. “Good truths?”

“Mm — and bad. Bloody.”

Kiss to her lips: light, soft. “Knife. Arrow. Wolf.” Drags back, slides his thumb to her cunt as his hips press back forward. “Keep you safe — from men and memories, both.”

Smiles as she tries to speak. Curse comes out — stone-rattle mixed with her own tongue. Her eyes roll back with the rhythm of his thumb. Slows his pace till she grumbles at him again, cants her hips, looks at him: _more_. His smile deepens.

March forgotten in a little haze as the sun pokes at the snowy tent-top. Light catching at her teeth as she tips back her head, as they wake the camp with their noise. Two wolves — red, white — howling a song of echoes all their own. 

*

Leave the Wall in a clatter of shields, brush of bearskins. Jon rides at the side of his queen; stone-faced king gruffs a bit at that. Gives it up when the red woman touches his arm, cuts a look same colour as the hood she hides her hair beneath.

Half a day of hard riding. Another after that. Half and half again till their days are a blur of much the same: snow and stone and sun and steps and slopes — soon enough, king called Stannis doesn’t care so much where Jon chooses to ride.

Pick up banners as they go. More and more. People talk behind their hands — say the young wolf has come again. Jon sits on that, broods as is his way. Drops back till he is level with the wraith. Looks at the fingers clenched on the leather reins: torn, tatty, tarred with scars like old blood. Looks into his eyes; little bit of iron at their edges.

“Young wolf,” he says. “What do they mean?”

Theon goes haggard, hollow. “Robb. He was the Young Wolf.”

“Robb?”

“My lady’s brother.”

Thinks on it. “Good fighter?”

“Able. Fierce. Quick and clever.”

Nods: once, twice. “Like my queen then.”

“Even rides like him,” says Theon: all ragged, wispy. “He wouldn’t recognise her.”

“Other brothers might have,” rumbles Jon. “If they weren’t ashes in the wind.”

“I — ”

Shakes his head: once, sharp. “I want to break your neck. She will not let me.” Lifts a brow as the sun skitters behind a snow-cloud and shadows dance, deepen. “You will fight for her. You will win back the castle you hung with boy-banners. Her home.” A snarl — just a little one. “Hear me?”

The words are torn from the wraith’s bobbing tongue as Orell’s eagle shrieks. Blue-grey wings cutting through the snow-heavy sky, talons flexing as it wheels to land on the skinchanger’s arm. Shrieks again. Orell strokes its feathers, mutters something soft as he comes across one still a little blackened by the red woman’s magic.

“We saw another bird,” says the skinchanger. “One with a silver beak.” Cocks his head, clucks his tongue at the eagle. “Man beside him. Banner on a pole. Ripped and bloody.”

King called Stannis and Sansa say it both at once —

“Ramsay Bolton.”

But they do not need to say it; Jon knows it already. Some dark fury stoking demons in his blood as he thinks of that bastard who used to haunt her dreams.

Catches the steel-glitter of her eyes now, rides toward her. 

No rune-marks of a rabbit’s blood on his face; but he sends up a prayer to the old gods even so. Growls at them to see it, hear it. Growls at them to let _him_ answer it, queen at his side, sword in his hand — all the fury of the wild burning like ice and fire in his belly.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sit down to write these chapters at the moment and I have to fight and force myself to stop writing them because I get so over-excited by all the PLOT and POWER and PRETTY . . . saying that, once I have posted the next chapter [23] there may be a _little_ wait on the final (😢!) few. Might give anyone who is lagging behind a chance to catch up — I know notification emails and the like are a bit all over the place currently or maybe you got bored off this long ago who knows 🤷♀️ I most certainly have not, and am intent on crafting the perfect end to this little snow-shod journey, however long it takes! Thank you for reading; please shout at me in the comments if you’re happy and you know it. 👏❤️
> 
> **_also_** just to clarify: Theon got captured by the Wulls in the Bay of Ice after sending Sansa’s driftwood raft on [its journey](https://66.media.tumblr.com/b2d3875cc23735b3890fecae91e8db6d/03e590dcf641b6a7-5f/s540x810/37b49f7fff30c684d26f2477b1fecca7e1f087d1.jpg) toward the Gorge/Milkwater. Big Bucket has kind of adopted him. I know(?) in the show Theon reveals he didn’t kill Bran/Rickon to Sansa before they escape Winterfell. I am playing on the same premise here; but Sansa’s memories are painful and imperfect and just now coming full-circle and that’s why she doesn’t immediately stab Theon in the face/let Jon break his neck here okay because she is still figuring everything out and piecing it all together and that’s all the logic I need goodnight and goodbye stop fighting me I said stop it x


	23. Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Rhythm of his battle-dance. He is not tired. Nothing aches. He is alive. There is storm-light lancing every line of every bone in his body, there is love in his heart…’
> 
> this chapter contains a _bit_ of blood and violence. [⚔️](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=axKvLU99Fc0)

Wraith gives a whimper to see a blood-red stallion crest the hilltop. Banner on a pole. Man dancing on it. Ripped and bloody. Beside it, some twist of parlay hanging white and limp in a dead breeze. Jon snarls. Would rip that little flag down, turn it red as the stallion that bastard rides. 

Another horse on the hilltop now, little flash of silver as the man upon it turns. Closer, closer — sees it is a cloak-pin shaped like a mockingbird. But he is more beast than bird, this man with silver eyes and a smile slippery to match. Something of the fox in the way he moves. Closer — _closer_.

“Let me kill him.”

Growls it: low, soft. In front of the garrons, Ghost bares his teeth, sidesteps till he is flush between them. Lowers his shoulders there: some creature carved of stone and white winds — timeless as he is terrifying. Jon feels more than a bit of the same wildness bandying with the demons in his blood now. A wolf, might be — howling to get out.

“Let me kill him,” he growls again. “ _Edzèa_ , please.”

Trembling on his garron now. Launch himself from the saddle if he could, topple that little lord to the snow. Smash a fist to his face till it looks like the bloody flank of a butchered deer got at by wolves. But he stays his hand, tries to stop his grumbling at Sansa’s quick warning look. Waits.

“A year, little wife.” Trips out: a lazy, drawling shout. “I have been worried sick.”

Jon growls, the wolf grumbles — Sansa sits her horse silent as the gods sit the clouds in the sky. Looks from the man who sold her to the man who is shouting and back again. Beasts and birds. Flock of them lining the hillside — hundreds, _thousands_. Banners dancing above them: a bloody man, a bird against a moon. Pushes her horse closer.

“I am not your wife,” she says now. “I will not even be your widow.” Lifts her chin, squares the ivory-knife of her jaw. “The closest my hand will get to being yours is when I reach inside your chest and pull your heart out with my fingers.”

Little ripple on that hillside; flash of silver. “Come now, San— ”

“You will be quiet,” growls Jon. “Hmm? _Quiet_ — or you’ll never speak again.”

Mockingbird, fox shifting silver. “I’ve heard all the tales of your kind, wildling. Raiding, stealing — snatching women from their beds and carrying them beyond the Wall.” Smile glimmers, glints. “Is that what you did with Sansa?”

“Lady Stark to you, little lord.”

Nostrils flare at that. “I love Sansa like I loved her m— ”

“Keep talking — if you want to lose your tongue.” Jon moves forward a step: garron, wolf weaving a storm at its hooves. “Say her name again. Hmm? _Say_ it — and let me cut that pretty silver tongue out at the root.”

“You stole her and now you tell me — ”

“You _sold_ her, little lord of stones and shit.” Gods are in him now, howling with the wolf inside his veins. “But she ran. She set herself free — and I would do anything to keep her that way. Believe it.” He wants to break that fox-skull with a fist, spit the blood-spatter from his lips. “A goddess, that is what she is. A goddess made of ice and fire. You?” Spits it now: blood, apple-seed words. “Demon in the black water.”

Sansa sways up to Jon’s side. He sees the tautness in her cheeks; but she does not hear the little lord’s spluttering now. Does not hear him, does not see him. He is air to her — less. Her eyes flit to the bastard on his blood-red stallion.

“Your body will not be burned or buried,” she says now, dreamlike. “The gods have turned their back on you.” Looks to the sky — the snow-seams in it — then smiles at the men who sold her and now sit silent, scared. “You are nothing. Hear me?” An apple-seed savoured, spat. “ _Nothing_.”

*

Her fingers on the map. He watches them: moving, weaving — _ruling_. A moon-pale fingertip pressed to a knot of greystone and godswood etched in ash-dark ink. Little word-burst of names, houses, numbers. Tap to a thatch of trees picked out in green-blue blotches.

“Six thousand,” she says. “Bolton foot soldiers, cavalry. What did you find, _kǫwò_?”

Tormund steps up to the map. “Horse-lines are here.” Thumb on the tree-edge. “Here.”

“How many fly the falcon?”

“Another two, might be.”

Blue eyes lock together: lick up like flames. “Hundred?”

“Thousand.”

King called Stannis cuts in. “Bolton boy commands twice the horseflesh we have — but on foot we are more evenly matched.” Grinds his teeth, jaw gritting. “Even so, it will be a struggle not a battle. A bloody, brutal struggle.”

“Bloodier the better,” says the Wull. “Long as it is Bolton blood spattering across my face when my axe bites deep into a skull.” Thumps his hand onto the table. “I will lick it off my lips and die with the taste of it on my tongue.”

Sansa smiles at that, then looks at the stone-faced king. “We may even out the odds.”

“How?”

“Tyrion beat you with a chain. A trick.” Her fingertips drift from the currents of the sea back to the thatch of trees. “I would do the same to Ramsay.”

Blue-black eyes following the tread of her fingertips. “Where is the honour in that?”

“There is no honour in war — no boon or beauty got in bloodshed.” Her eyes flash: blue fire, storm-light. “Only a man would make the mistake of thinking that.”

Grits his teeth, chews at them. “A man like your father.”

“True enough.” She does not tremble or tarry. “Honour was his end.” Lowers her chin, lights the tent up with her eyes. “It will not be mine.”

Beat of quiet, then — “Name your trick, Lady Stark.”

“A band of men,” she says. “Light armour. No torchlight. They’ll move through the horse-lines when the moon is waning. Cut them loose.” Jerks her chin. “Wolves will run them into the hills. Eagle, too.”

“Who will lead them?”

Jon presses a thumb to her hip. “I can — ”

“You will stay here at my side.” Does not look at him; but he feels the shiver spread from her body to his thumb, his palm. “ _Kǫwò_ will light the way.”

It is decided. Tormund nods, goes to gather his warriors. First brush of dark spreading at the air like ink. Jon keeps his hand on Sansa’s hip, squeezes it till she stops shivering. Steps back. Watches as she moves her fingers over the map, pushes stones from one place to another — plots her battle like a shield-maiden, a warrior-queen of old.

*

King called Stannis quits the tent last. His eyes are hollows in his stone-carved face, his teeth keep up their grinding. A muscle flickers in his jaw.

“After we have won it, we must talk.” Gestures to the map. “About the North.”

“You want it for yourself?”

Eyes flash: blue-black, brittle. “It is not a question of wanting. The throne is mine, as Robert’s heir. That is law. After me, it must pass to my daughter.” His jaw works. “I am king. Wants do not enter into it. I have a duty to my daughter. To the realm — all seven parts of it.”

“You can fight for it,” she says quietly. “You can try to take it.” Her eyes flash a fire of their own: blue-wide, bursting. “But the North will never belong to you.”

“After we have won it,” grits Stannis. “We will talk, Lady Stark.”

Quits the tent. Red woman lingers outside; Jon can smell her — a red-hot forge, smoke, blood. Drapes settle back and the scent burns away. It is just the two of them. His head clears. Watches the firelight kiss at Sansa’s hair, then steps up behind her where she stands rigid at the map.

He puts his arm around her shoulders, her waist. She sinks back into him, tips her cheek toward his body. His fingers snake beneath her furs, swoop up to rest on her breastbone as she finds his other wrist, twines her hand around it. Skin to skin: they both seek it. Always. Her thumb feathers the blood-beat below his palm; his fingers skate across her heart.

“I am lost.”

Cuts at his belly: her whimper. Shakes his head. “No.” Tightens his arm around her shoulders. “You know what you are, Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

“I am found,” she whispers — and he hears the smile in her voice. “I am free.”

He turns her in his arms, fingers springing loose, finding new perches. Strokes a thumb the mountain-ridge of her cheekbone. Foreheads pressed together now; sea-ice eyes an ocean pulling at the currents stirring in his own.

“There are so many of them, Jon.” Runs her fingertips across his shoulders, down his arms. Digs to dent a grip: her hands light on his elbows. “So _many_.”

Nudges at her brow with his own. “Hmm. Men and horses.” Their noses glance, kiss. “But we have giants. Mountains, bears — _wolves_.” Looks at her: slow, steady as he breathes her breath. “We have each other, _edzèa_.”

“Kiss me,” she whispers. “Please, love.”

Thumb to her cheek, he tips back her head, sinks his mouth onto her own. Her fingers tighten on his elbows. She moans — he rasps his thumb along her jaw, soothes the sound. Tongue, little scrape of teeth as she dents his lip with a nip. Draws back with fire in her sea-ice eyes, lifts a hand to hold his cheek.

“My _nyeupe n_ _ǫ_ _di_ ,” she breathes. “You will keep me safe.”

Nods: once, twice. “Always.” Rolls his eyes, tilts his head. “Him, too.”

They turn and smile, look off over their shoulders to where the white wolf waits, dead rabbit in his jaws at the doorway of the tent. She gives a softer smile. Beckons him in.

*

Red on his face — on her face, too. Prayer painted on their brows, cheeks: rune-marks of a rabbit’s blood shimmering on their skin like fingerprint figures pressed to a damp stone wall. Brow to hers, breathes her breath: slow, steady — soft as his last, glancing kiss to her lips before they leave their tent.

The dawn follows her; she drinks it. Every bit of her shining like some fine, rare jewel. Battle braids, a crown of copper — her hair a cloak of fire as the sun crests the sky, makes her glow like a goddess in its light.

Might be the gods think the same. Watches as they stir the black-knife trees with their breath, as the thin boughs whip and tremble. Rush of it on his skin, pulling at his furs, whistling in his ears — burning him to his charge, his _fate_. 

He could not know what that fate was back when he found her half-dead beside the river. He knew only what he knew: that she would live — that it _mattered_. Now here he stands, the matter of her life as much a part of him as the heartbeat in his chest. Real as the sword in his hand. Loud as the war-cry on his lips. He bangs his shield: once, twice.

Fight for her. Mm, he will. Hard. Kill for her — hundreds, _thousands_. Die for her. He might. He would. Gladly. But not here, not now. Here — _now_ — he will live and hack and kill, and kiss her when the killing is done. He will come to her at battle’s end, bastard blood mixed with the rune-marks on his cheeks.

Beside him, the wraith trembles a bit. Tarred, tatty fingers whispering the lines of an ashwood bow. Can smell the fear on him.

Jon is not afraid. Fighting — he was made for it. The gods picked out the shape of his body, poured metal into it. He is the steel of his blade, a storm in the mountains; he laughs as he steps, swings, slashes. _Laughs_. Even so, he will not mock a man for trembling in the face of battle. Gentles his growl now — just a little.

“You are afraid to fight?”

Blinks hard: panic swallowing up the iron in his eyes. “Not to fight — or to die.” Trembling so hard his teeth chatter. “I’m afraid of what will happen if he catches me.”

“If your neck is to be broken today,” rumbles Jon. “It will be me who does it. Not him.” Half a smile, might be. “Hmm. I would not let him take you alive… Theon.” Slaps a palm to boiled leather, glimpses iron in those eyes again. “Now stand tall. Hold your form. Fight.”

Moves off, gathers up his men. Feathers in their hair; eagle wheeling overhead. Looks hard at them.

They do not wear the wolf of her house — grey, lick-lipped — but each of them bears her mark. Little stitches she has put into their shirts when she mended rips in the mountains. A collar on Val’s cloak: soft scrap of silk sewn to faded bearskin. Tormund flexing his fingers inside his new-hemmed gloves — pride of his heart.

“Jon the Boy,” sounds that brass-bell voice happily. “Hmm. Might be Jon the Bloody now.”

Huffs a laugh through his nose. “Tin-men didn’t catch you, then.”

“Lines are cut.” Tormund slashes the flat of his hand to the other palm. “Horses gone into the hills. Tin-men scratching their heads wondering where they left them.”

Big Bucket cracks a laugh from somewhere. “Let them wander — on foot, toward my axe.”

“Sure I’ve landed an arrow in you before, wildling.”

Jon looks: slight man with thistles on his shield squinting at Big Bucket’s side. “Tried for my heart.” Bangs a fist to his arrow-marked shoulder. “You’ve bad aim, Brandon Norrey.”

“Better with an axe.”

“You best be.”

Tormund catches him up after the laughter has pealed down to shield-clatter quiet. Touches a thumb to the centre of Jon’s brow, narrows his blue eyes — widens them.

“You will earn those marks,” he says. “You will make the gods dance, shout.” Flash of snow through the flames of his beard as he smiles. “We will make our battle-song like one of those hymns my _gǫh_ sings — well and true for the gods to see. Hmm?”

“Hmm,” rumbles Jon — and he is smiling, too. “Aye.”

“Good,” says Tormund, slapping at his rune-marked cheek. “Good, lad.”

Drums now.

A sharp, shrill ringing.

Looks up to the hilltop where the white wolf sits, weaves around the hooves of Sansa’s horse. Mance steady at her side. Lines of spears, shields, swords between her and the battlefield; but Jon knows she will not stay away from the thick of it for long — much as he would like it.

Looks at her, looks away.

Charges: a storm, a moving mountain.

But his head stays full of his warrior-queen — arrow-straight on her horse, rune-marks of a rabbit’s blood marking her moonstone cheeks.

He lifts his sword, feels the light of her dawn inside it. Knocks the first flayed man dead. Then the next.

*

Tide has turned. His men are drowning. Still, he fights. Hard.

His shield is broken, axe-marked and scarred as his skin. He snarls, hefts it, cracks a flayed man’s head in half with it — throws it spattered with bone and blood to the snow. Sting on his shoulder, turns to gut the man who glanced his blade there. Mm. Man who now dies screaming.

Sten is on the ground, too. Black blood pooled round the lance in his belly. His mouth hanging open; Jon can see the gap where that tooth used to be. _Dead weight_ — and yet he fought for her, died for her. It is enough to make Jon rumble a war-cry from somewhere deep between his ribs, turn back to the fray: hack, kill.

Rhythm of his battle-dance. He is not tired. Nothing aches. He is alive. There is storm-light lancing every line of every bone in his body, there is love in his heart.

Skulls cave beneath his fists — each one for her.

There is blood on his cheek; but it does not belong to him. Blood of men and gods mixed up together. He is a wolf howling for more of it.

Winterfell shimmers like a dream on the horizon. Thinks of her moon-pale fingertip tracing its ash-dark knot on the map as he tips a tin-man over, stabs till the white-and-blue surcoat is black. He spits salt from his mouth, narrows his eyes up to the other hilltop. Sees her there, the weirwood bow a pale shadow arched back into her body: a rain of arrows.

Eagle screeching — somewhere, a snowbear roars.

Moves now: quick, lethal. He cannot see that blood-red stallion anywhere, the bastard that fights upon it. Makes him growl, beat a fist to his chest, set a flayed man scrambling backward away in fright. Knocks him dead. Then the next. The next, the next, the _next_. 

Sky is darkening, the snow-seams in it threatening to burst. Wound on his shoulder is an echo of a dull ache; but his feet stay dancing. He fights. He roars. He is a mountain, the storm that thunders at its peak. The gods kiss his skin with their breath.

Gives a shout and the ink-blots burst in the sky. Shower of ice. He blinks up toward Winterfell, the greystone walls turning white with snow — and he feels a pull in his heart, a pulse in his blood. Frowns.

No time to wonder at it. Air is dark and ripped up by a howl. Through the press of flayed men, falcon knights, he sees a shadow bigger than the night. Staggers back, feels the brush of fur through his bloodied fingers.

A wolf — flash of black, green — cutting tendons with its teeth. At its side a boy. Tall, thin: shock of ruddy hair wet with snow, flint-tipped spear in his hand. Old Tongue weighing heavy on his lips, clattering like stones — but Jon can understand him.

“Home,” the wolf-boy is shouting. “This is my _home_ and we will get it back.”

Gone: a blink, a breath. Stream of men in bearskins, pelts, banners rippling in the icy wind — red flame on black, twist of green and white, a driftwood tree scrabbling dead branches toward the sky.

Long, shrill horn.

A curl-tailed merman flutters into view and with it comes a clatter of steel-plate, scraping swords, thundering hooves. They shout the same: _For_ _Winterfell_ , _for the_ _Starks_ — and they cut flayed men down like a rockfall sweeping a mountainside clean.

Tide has turned. Flayed men are drowning. They do not fight. They run. _Flee_.

Jon laughs. Tormund, too. Move now in-step with their new friends, allies, brothers — flush up the hill toward the shimmering dream-stones of Winterfell.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
>   
> Aaaaah! Surprise! Sansa POV next chapter, whenever that may be. Stay well, honeys — oh and **_kǫwò_ ** = flames/red because Tormund needs his own pet-name now too, doesn’t he? ***** runs ***** ❤️ 


	24. Howl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘She is fire suddenly: rage red as her hair. She is a _queen_ — something bathed in a warrior’s light. Powerful in her restraint. Carved from ice even as her body burns, burns, _burns_.’
> 
> Sansa POV . . . it’s time to go a-hunting! [🏹](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLFxKcIu09k)

Ramsay runs — Sansa knew he would.

Watches him slip away from the battle early: a blood-red speck cutting off toward the trees. But he forgets into whose wood he flees. It does not belong to flayed men or falcon knights, this knot of oak and evergreen, ironwood, sentinel, soldier-pine. It is the wolfswood — and she is the quiet one who stalks it.

Val follows. Mance, too. She leaves them with the horses just inside the tree-line, bids the wolf to cut a path ahead. Three steps behind her, Theon trembles: a tangle of driftwood on the twist of a tide. Soft thud of his footsteps on snow-dappled soil; he picks his way near as cleanly as the proud, careful woodsman he used to be.

Above, the sky rumbles. Half a breath, the snow-seams in it burst in a shower of ice. Snow sings against her cheeks, darkens the rune-marks bloodying her skin. Her fingers flex on the weirwood bow; the wolf disappears into the snowy gloom of the wood. Glances over her shoulder, gives a smile to see a little iron glinting in the shadows.

Theon is breathing quicker. “Your brothers — ”

“I know,” she whispers. “After the battle is done, I will ride into the wild to find them.” Looks into the iron-glimmer of his eyes. “Bring them home.”

Quiet falls back between them; there is no more that need be said. Her brothers live. They are not ashes in the wind. Places will be made for them beside the fireplace, not in the cold belly of the crypts. Sansa has half-known it for a while: the light in Theon’s eyes has never told her different — and now finally she _sees_ it, too. Her brothers live. They are not ashes in the wind. They will come home to her at battle’s end. 

But the battle is not yet done.

Somewhere in the wolfswood, a flayed man hides. Her mouth flushes from its smile, firms up into a line. She will root him out. Put him down like a bloodhound gone bad on a hunt. Fingers flex on the weirwood bow again; she nods at Theon to follow. Up ahead, Ghost tilts his head toward the darkening gloom.

Leaf-rustle of snow, Jon emerges. There is blood on his cheeks; the lust for more in his battle-wild eyes. He wears a cloak of it already: dried dark in his beard, blurring the tips of the rune-marks painted on his face.

Walks toward her, this god of war, mountains, thunder. Puts a thumb quietly to her brow — nods comfort to himself that she does not fade at his touch.

“ _Edzèa_.”

His lips linger across the thumbprint on her brow — gentle, fleeting. Her belly thrums: a deep, sweet ache. Twist of heat, bile on her tongue. She puts her palm below her ribs. Wonders. Then his lips are gone. Her belly quiets. They turn together: a pair of wolves — red, white — and a wraith growing strong as the iron-glimmer of his eyes.

*

Ghost stalks off and their movements are his mirror. Shoulders low, hands resting on the knives in their belts. Bow supple over her arm. Song of the forest all around them is cut to quiet, snowfall building banks in its shadows. Edge of a thatch of icy sentinels, echoes of an old game-trail. Follow it. Jon catches her arm as the snake-bend of a stream comes into view: a little silver-grey glimmer in the gloom.

“You hear him?”

She nods. “I hear him.”

“Lung.” Tilts his ear to listen. “Arrow got the left one.”

Dips her head again. “I will make it both.”

“Quiet now,” he murmurs as they step softly into the stream. “Time to breathe.” Flutter of his fingers along her arm as she holds her form, corrects it reflexively. “Good.” Steadies her elbow with his palm, then slowly steps back. “Make it both, _néstaxe_.”

Arrow whistles through the air. Her aim is as true as it was back in the lands of always winter: flint-tips bedding into deer, rabbit, something for the pot. Finds flesh now, too. Splash as Ramsay buckles to his knees, bolt of her bow punched into his chestplate as he tumbles from his hiding place in the trees lining the stream.

Blood on his lips bubbling as he laughs, leers. Her teeth grit.

She is fire suddenly: rage red as her hair. She is a _queen_ — something bathed in a warrior’s light. Powerful in her restraint. Carved from ice even as her body burns, burns, _burns_.

“Howl,” she snarls as he gasp-giggles, chokes on blood. “Howl.”

Jolts the bow, makes the arrow-point land just shy of his soft throat. Beds into his shoulder. He kicks water up, sputters silver seams of it gilded like rubies as he coughs and gags into the stream. Weighed down by armour. Helpless on his back. Tip him over and he would drown, gasp mouthfuls of water, suck it down till his lungs were full of it as his own blood.

Might be he sees that thought glitter in her eyes.

Sansa smiles. Slowly.

“Reek,” he cries now, flails. “Help me. Give me your sword. _Now_ , Ree— ”

“He is Theon,” rumbles Jon. “He will not help you.”

Like a giant, her heart towers over the bastard who haunted her dreams. Bastard now thrashing like a netted fish in a river. Jon puts a foot onto the heaving chest, slots a grip round the grey-feathered arrow — pushes it down, then wrenches it out.

A scream.

Blood paints his boots, swirls crimson in the water lapping at his ankles. Hers, too.

Three steps behind her, Theon trembles: a tangle of driftwood on the twist of a tide. Soft thud of his footsteps on river-smooth pebbles; he picks his way closer.

“Will you t-take my skin?” croaks Ramsay: sneering, snide. “Flay the fingers I used to c-cut off half your t-toes, Reek?”

Sneer slips away as Theon leans down, his hands finding purchase on steel-plate slippery with blood. “My name is not Reek — and I want nothing from you but for you to die.”

“You can’t kill m— ”

His words bubble out as he is rolled face-down into the stream. Jon lends a boot to Theon’s grip on the grooves of red-plated armour; Sansa listens to the metal creaking, the bones beneath it. Looks down at her hands. Sees that they are clean. Looks up to find them both watching her quietly, waiting.

The bubbles rise, burst.

“Let the winds flay his skin,” she says now, dreamlike. “Lungs fill with blood and water. Let him rot and fade and wash away to nothing.” Rubies drift in the river at her feet; the snow-heavy wolfswood hums, howls. “Because that is what he is — _nothing_.”

*

Moon is high before they reach the wall bounding the edges of the godswood. Ghost has gone back with Theon to fetch the horses, search out Mance and Val from the tree-line, return to the tents. It is just the two of them in the tumbledown shadows Sansa leads Jon through. He catches her elbow.

“A boy, _edzèa_. Fighting. He said this was his — ”

But Sansa does not hear him, _cannot_ hear him. His hand on her elbow is hot and she is hungry. Thirst blisters on her tongue. Not for mead or wine or honeyed ale — for _him_. She turns now. Her fingers find his lips, press the words from them. Lowers her eyes to the big muscles of his chest. Wants to make them rise faster, wants to feel the life in them, map it with her palms: strength, safety, shelter. Moans now, softly.

“Jon,” she whispers. “Please.”

He falls quiet, follows. Soon enough they are running: light-stepped as deer, the wolf that stalks them.

Lets her feet decide the path. Trails and turns she glimmered down as a girl, skirts flowing like water in the warm air of summer. Skittish, sweet — she acted a doe then, too shy to bare her skin, swallow-dive into the hot springs.

She is a woman now, a wolf.

She has always been a wolf.

Jon — he is a wolf, too.

Furs fall from her body. Chainmail. Bits of leather, the belt banding her hips. Steam rises off the water at their feet; its surface is a moon-glint, silvery tides lapping at the stones that border it. She steps to him, runs her fingertips across the sword-bloom at his shoulder. Frowns, fusses to stitch it even as her fingers flex hungrily. Hears the creak of his cheeks as he smiles.

“Bit of blood, that’s all.”

“Take this off,” she breathes. “ _Now_ , Jon.”

She tears the furs off him herself. Strips him till he wears nothing but a collar of blood. Bolton blood — spilled by him for _her_. Moves now: topples him into the pool. Water soaking the boot he does not kick away quick enough. It flies into the dark air, diamonds dripping from it as it lands in the snow.

Duck beneath the surface, come up gasping.

Laughter twisting into that rib-deep rumble that sets her throat alight. Spreads her legs and pulls him between them, goads him deeper till his growl tempers the water-song of the rippling pool.

Wants him to fuck her; there is no other word for it. The stones of the springs scrape at her back but it is a good hurt. A little lance of life and living. His hand is on her belly — his palm seems to forever rest there now — and she feels that twist of heat again, a tremble beneath her skin. Puts her own palm there, wonders. Little word-burst on her tongue; but her thoughts fade into kisses as his hips drag back.

“More,” it is all she can pant, moan, breathe. “ _More_ , Jon.”

“Knees,” he says at last. “Hands, too.”

Blinks at him: hazy, hot. “Like a dog?”

“Like a _wolf_.”

Flashes through every bit of her body: a flood that pools between her thighs, wets the fingers he is now working there. Mewls when he moves his hand away — gasps as his palms skim her hips, as he lifts her from the water, lines her up on the damp stone at its edge. Cold air prickles on warm skin. His hands heavy on her hips, still. Rumbling at her — _it’s good?_ — and she is nodding, arching back till he gives her what she wants.

“ _Edzèa_.”

Word is a metal-hiss breath and she is full — _whole_. Rougher now, the way he moves. She is undone by it. She feels like something wanton, something wild; her moans rake hunger at the skies. Bows onto her elbows, arches her spine till her bones creak. Chants his name: one long string of letters, endless, ebbing. 

Cheek against the smooth stone. She finds his fingers, pulls them from the small of her back and puts them in her hair.

He cradles her skull in his hand: a palm-span, all of her held safe in his fingertips as his hips meet her own, ring soft little thunderclaps through the cold air of the godswood.

Other hand is on her hip, thumb rasping circles as he draws that stone-ripple up into her chest. She whimpers, flutters. He folds over her: the press of his belly to her back burns her clean. Her world narrows to his cock, to the naked heat of him, to the sounds he pulls from her throat. Gives a grumble: low, deep. Nodding, nipping at her lips, _squeezing_ — hard.

“It’s good,” she breathes as she tugs his palm toward her mouth, presses smile-shaped kisses to it. “It’s _good_ , Jon.”

His laughter turns to a groan to gods and men; her whimper to a soft-sung howl. It rings out, fills the night.

Wolfsong washes deep into the wolfswood: salt-hot as the blood and water mixing merry in the hollows left by her arrows in that ruined chestplate.

Mm — in the drowned lungs wrung limp and lifeless beneath rust-coloured metal.

*

“I think I was wrong.”

Jon does not lift his head from her heart. “Hmm?”

“I was wrong,” she says softly, thinking of rubies, riverwater. “There is a little beauty got in bloodshed after all.”

Huffs a laugh through his nose at that, rolls his face between her breasts, lifts it to blink up at her. His eyes are not so battle-wild now; the haze of sleep drifts at their edges. She smiles down at him, runs her fingertip the length of his nose — smile deepening as he goes to bite it. Window-glass creaks; it makes them both start. Cups his chin, draws him up as she finds her voice, words: slow, lazy.

“It’s strange being in a stone room again.”

He nods, looks away from the window of the chamber they have stolen into like thieves in the night. Late: dark dipping into dawn, too tired to don duty. It will wait until the morrow. Her banner dances on the battlements — grey, lick-lipped — and she will stay quietly in this dusty little room till the sun tugs the sky back from the moon. 

“I cannot hear the wind against the tent,” he rumbles now. “The noise of a thousand folk sleeping close around me.”

Even as he says it, sounds drift up from the dark. Firewood crackling in the braziers on the battlements. A lone laugh like a bucket-drop into a well of echoes. Sentries shifting. The creak of canvas, flags shifting. Noise of a thousand folk all around them.

“Look,” she murmurs. “Listen. You will see.” Her lips find his own; she tastes his smile. “It is not so very different here.”

Sag to sleep, both of them: his body bearing her into the featherbed. Her muscles ache as much as her bones. The damp heat of him soothes a bit of the battle-sting away. She is lax, floating — her dreams spin across an ice-lake, mountain-stones shimmering in pale sunlight. Eyes like her own. Blue. Deep blue: the bite of the North, the wolf, the wild.

Blinks awake. Her hand drifts across her belly, searching for the heat of him. Pats at the linen as she folds to sitting. Finds him curled up on the bearskin in front of the fire. She slips from the sheets — goes to him.

“ _Edzèa_ ,” he rumbles as she lays down beside him. “The bed.”

His voice is sleep-heavy, sparking between dreams and wakefulness. Burrows into his body, finds for a pillow the crook of his neck. His arm shifts, tightens over her. Closes her eyes, breathes his breath; they are back in their little tent. Feels his smile against her brow — knows he is thinking it, too.

“Furs on the ground,” she whispers. “Stars up above. Don’t need much else.”

Smile shifts to a kiss on her skin. “Hmm.”

“Quiet now,” she rumbles. “Time to sleep.”

Falls asleep with the press of his mouth warm on her forehead, laughter on his lips. Hers, too.

*

Jon wakes her with the words she pressed from his lips in the shadows of the godswood. A boy. A wolf bigger than the night. Skagosi banners: red flame on black, twist of green and white, a driftwood tree scrabbling dead branches toward the sky. Sansa does not stop to bind her boots; they flounder at her ankles as she runs into the dawn.

“Rickon,” she shouts it blindly. “Rickon!”

Men stir groggily at cookfires, blink at her like she is a wolf run mad by the moon. But she does not care. Her brother is here. She can feel him. His name crackles on the cold air, dips to echo at the stones of the castle walls.

Tents shimmer in the early sun, canvas shifts — a shadow steps out: tall, thin. Ruddy hair a rose-flare in the light. Her knees give out.

“ _Rickon_.”

Ice bites at the flats of her shins. Her fingers flail — and are found, fixed between skin roughened by seawater, swords, salt-air, spears tipped in flint.

Fierce little warrior: every line of his face shaped by a strange life the both of them have lived, have come to love. Reads it in his eyes, strangles herself on a sob as he rushes into her out-flung arms.

“Brother,” she ebbs. “My little _brother_.”

Fierce little warrior; still, he trembles like a boy to hear her voice. “Old Tongue is mine now. Southron words — I don’t remember many.” He touches her hair. “But I remember you, Sansa. My _gomba_ , my blood.”

“You are my pack,” she murmurs. “You are my _dǫzia nǫdi_.”

“He is not so little.”

Jon’s voice skates out; Rickon nods knowingly at it. Sansa cannot help her smile — it is so wide her cheekbones feel like they are gliding eagle-height above the mountains.

“Mm. You are the _dezǫ nǫdi_ , then.” Jerks her chin. “Like Shaggy.”

Turn their gaze to find three wolves, not two. Hazily, she looks at them. Frowns even as she smiles. They are all of a size. Long-limbed, loose in the way they move around each other.

Ghost — her wolf, _their_ wolf — sidling silent as Shaggy dips to touch his black snout to the bone-white flank, lows softly.

Another grumble joins the tune, slips soft to a howl.

Ice-prickles graze her skin.

The third wolf is silvery as a stream, as mountain-grasses limned by the dawn-tides — strong as the stone beneath the twisting stems. Eyes like the sun: yellow, bright as a memory. Sansa feels her heart glide high as her cheekbones now, turn to thunder in her throat.

“Summer,” says a voice: polished, cool. “Go greet your brothers.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeee, the pack (re)assembles! Beautiful art of my head-canon Rickon [here](https://gaya-the-k.tumblr.com/post/620735203010330625/2019-sketch-of-wildling-rickon-im-still). I haven’t forgotten about Littlefinger, never fear: he will rush headlong at his fate next chapter. I’m quite excited about the set-up for that . . . hopefully you will like it. Theon’s role here — I think he deserved that closure. Sansa, too. Keeping well, I hope, honeys; and yes the chapter-count has gone up by two! I hope that is sweet angels singing and not boo-hiss _whyyyyyy, Charm, whyyyyyy_ 😂 Bye for now, loves! ❤️
> 
>  **translations** : _edzèa_ [little heart . . . just in case you needed a reminder] _néstaxe_ [comrade, ally, co-warrior] _gomba_ [sister/older sister] _dǫzia nǫdi_ [little wolf] _dezǫ nǫdi_ [black wolf — just for you, boo 😘]


	25. Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “Do not look to them,” she says now. “It is my castle here. My realm. My rule.” Jerks her chin, puts the bloodied point of her blade to his jawbone. “On your knees.”

His queen staggers up from her knees, dips back onto them again. There is a name on her lips: out-flung, echoey as the low gasp she makes deep inside her throat.

It shudders up like a sob, a sigh — hitches, hollows like the bow of her body to the cobblestones.

Jon feels it in his belly: sharp, hot. Bends to pick her up, gives his strength to let her steady her own. She clutches at his arm as she teeters on her feet.

Shades of the little lost girl cling to her suddenly. Damp colours: blues, greys, whites, but there — just _there_ — a streak of fire warming up the frozen air. He puts his fingertips to that fire-streak of hair framing her moonstone face, hums till she quiets. Follows her gaze.

Another boy. Tangle of rose-flare hair, moon-pale hands folded in his lap. Leant back in a sled strewn with furs, pelts. Next to it, a girl shimmering in the early sun: bronze scales beneath a bearskin, frog-spear in one hand, other resting on the sled. Woven net knotted about her waist. Moss for eyes; the boy’s are an ice-lake — still as the depths of one, too.

“Brothers,” says Sansa now, dreamlike. “Ghost has no brothers.”

“He has two brothers.” It does not belong to a boy: that polished voice, smooth as river-stones. “A sister, too.” Ice-lake eyes gliding. “Just like you.”

Makes that hollow little gasp again. “ _Ary_ — ” 

“Time for truth will come later,” says the boy in those god-strung tones. “For now, the man who sold you sits in chains. What would you do with him?”

Chaos of battle calmed to order as he slept tangled up with her in front of the fire; but now bloodlust licks flame back into Jon’s heart. Thinks of that fox-skull — aches to crush it with his fist, poke that mockingbird cloak-pin into those flashing quicksilver eyes. Put them out.

Sansa shivers at his side. He squeezes her hip, lets her step toward the fur-strewn sled. There is nothing of the little lost girl about her now. She is a wolf again: red, fierce.

“Let him name his champion,” she murmurs. “I will give him fair terms. Fight, win — the mockingbird can fly free.” Her jaw is an ivory-knife as it hardens. “Fight, _fall_ — the wolf will pick his bones clean till there is nothing left of him.”

A glimmer in that ice-lake now; softer roll across river-stones. “You would fight him?”

“I would see justice done.” Sansa puts her hand to the boy-god’s cheek; soft scuttling of her teeth as her thumb learns anew the lines of his face. “Broth— _Bran_.”

On her knees again, arms a storm of warmth dragging ice from the very edges of a lake. Chipping it away. Melting it till there is a stirring from the fur-strewn sled, a creak as Bran shifts within her embrace. Blinks up at the sky, something clearing in his eyes. A word on his lips — _sister_ — whispered like a learned, half-forgotten prayer.

Slowly, his moon-pale hand slides to rest between her shoulder-blades. Grips down tight.

*

Little lord is led out at noonday. Fear on his face glistening like rain, like riverwater churned up by a boot. Chains struck from his wrists — still, he holds his palms together as the holy men do in the south.

Jon snarls to see it. Would pull those palms apart, bend his fingers back until — one by one — they buckle, break. Snarls again; Sansa shushes him. Puts a cool hand on his neck. Fleeting touch to calm him before she drifts past him, hand fluttering back to her side. Turns in the sunlight and he gulps the air to see her glow.

Profile of a shield-maiden, some warrior-queen of old. Watches her from the stone-rimmed edges of the courtyard. Skates a sigh with what little breath remains in his lungs to look at her: moving, weaving — _ruling_.

His shield-maiden, his queen. Battle braids, a crown of copper — his heart. He looks at the shield carved of weirwood, swallows the water in his mouth to see it. Always will.

The steel-glitter of her eyes is sharp as the sword she swings. Little lord flinches, staggers back. She smiles. Slowly.

“Hold your form,” she says. “Fight.”

Naked scrape of steel on steel. Begins her battle-dance: easy, graceful. There is no sweat turning her skin to glass, even as the little lord pants curses through salt-tipped lips.

He has soft hands. Hilt slips through fingers more used to gripping pens and poison than parrying the steel-glitter fury of a warrior, a wronged queen.

Fights, falls. Scrabbles to get up.

A lazy sword-stroke, she cuts the thumb from his left hand cleanly.

He screams, judders to his feet, flails at the watching faces as if he would still look for a champion to step forward and fight this trial for him. As if such a beast exists.

“This — ” His mouth fish-bobs, feet floundering through a stream of snow as he thrashes for balance. “My lords, _this_ is not justice!”

“Do not look to them,” she says now. “It is my castle here. My realm. My rule.” Jerks her chin, puts the bloodied point of her blade to his jawbone. “On your knees.”

Cradles his hand close to his chest, makes some show with his sword. “I am a lord.” Preens at his cloak-pin, scrabbles it with red fingertips. “I shall die a lord.”

But he trips backward as he says it, slices his own cloak from his shoulders with a clumsy footstep. Topples as if thrown from a ladder. The mockingbird flashes silver as it flies through the air. Eyes of sea-ice follow its arc, swoop down to settle above her slow smile.

“A naked lord, it would seem.”

He makes a sound: eerie as wind through the mountains. “I — sweetling, _please_.”

“Would you really do that?” she asks, smile softening. “Would you beg for your life?”

“I have loved you like I love— ”

“You never loved me,” she spits: all venom now, salt-hot. “You thought me clever enough to shape — stupid enough to cow.” Fire sparks on her tongue, heat licks at the air. “My uncle left you bleeding beside a river when you were young. My mother was blind to your black heart. My father saw what you were too late.” Takes a step forward: a figure of storm-light wreathed in flame. “But I see you, Petyr Baelish. I _see_ you — and your silver tongue will not save you now.”

Jon growls as those quicksilver eyes spin to face his own. Steps forward, hulking shoulders taking up the sky. He gets a grip on that slippery fox-skull, feels it tremble in his hand as he pushes down. Leans close, guts his voice to a whisper.

“Get on your knees, little lord — else I’ll cut the fucking backs of them.”

Bears down harder. The fox-skull slips from his grip as the little lord of stones and shit folds to his knees on the snowy cobbles. Turns angry, ugly eyes up to the warriors stood over him. Two wolves — red, white — making ready to break off a mockingbird’s beak as the pack behind them starts to howl.

“I _saved_ you,” chokes it: a trill, broken tune. “Took you from the city, kept you safe. I made you mine own daughter. I _loved_ you like one.” He rages, retches as wolfsong echoes. “You would be nothing without me. You would be _dead_. You are — ”

“I am Sansa of the House Stark,” she says now, dreamlike. “Who else would I be?”

The steel-glitter of her eyes is sharp as the sword she swings — eagle-height, it soars.

Holds it.

Then she lets it drop.

*

Afterward, the blood cools on the cobblestones, turns black in the cold air. Freezes to ice.

Sansa shivers, lifts her eyes from the red-bruised snow as the courtyard empties, as the sky darkens. It is just the two of them now beneath the stars. Holds out her hand, reaches for him wordlessly.

Jon pulls her into his body, whispers at her ear till she is warm again.

“You fought well.”

She turns her cheek against his throat. “Like a spearwife?”

“Like a queen.”

“Of Winterfell — or the wild?”

Considers it quietly. “Both.”

“Jon,” she muffles into his skin. “I am yours.”

“You are mine.”

“That is it,” she whispers. “That is all.”

Nods: once, twice. Finds her lips, drinks his name from them. She leans a palm to his chest, mumbles at his mouth. He nods again, smiles as she nods, too. Little bird-heads bobbing. Catches her up, burrows a kiss to her throat. Leaves the little lord to freeze in a black-water pool of his life’s blood on the cobbles.

Carries her back to their dusty little room, sets her down onto the bed. Builds the fire as she huffs at him, impatient. Rolls the shirt off his back, goes to join her.

Finds her folded back into the furs, jewel-bright smile deepening to a laugh — then breaking to a reedy, tired sob. He gathers her up into the curves of his bones, rubs a thumbprint-circle at her nape. Kisses the salt from her cheeks, the fury-fear from her heart.

“Dead,” he rumbles. “Burned. Bits of bone buried far from home.” Wolf just there, leaning low in her eyes as she gazes at the one howling softly in his own. “No man will ever haunt your dreams again, _edzèa_ — I swear it.”

Puts her palm to his wild beard, laps at his cheekbone with her thumb. Smiles at him very softly as his hand wanders beneath the furs to find her belly.

Skates his fingertips across the soft little swell of it, sees in her eyes that which she is not yet ready to tell him. Her lids roll closed; he brushes his nose the tip of her own, feels the fire-blush of her lashes tickle his cheek.

Gives his gentlest smile now, dips a kiss to her tired, teary lips. Hums her to sleep as he strokes her skin, soothes what beats below it with a patient palm.

*

There is a feast after the fallen are burnt: ashes and bits of bone buried in pits ringed by stones and feathers.

Music, meat, mead; Tormund steals a greater share of all three. Dances with his sons, his new brothers. Big Bucket, half the Wulls. A Skagosi warrior — skin blotted blue with ink, a dragonglass gemstone glinting in his ear like the wolf-boy wears — collared by one fire-thatched arm, laughing. Jon crushed beneath the other, growling.

“Earned those marks,” roars that brass-bell voice happily. “Made the gods afeard o’ you, lad. And my _gǫh_ — oh! _my gǫh_ would’ve set Joramun himself trembling.”

Skagosi lets out a stone-rattle cheer. “Good with a bow. Better than her brother.”

“Bet he’s no worse than me,” says Brandon Norrey through a hiccup. Sloshes his ale in Jon’s direction. “Better with an axe — I told you true.”

Ripple of laughter at that. Shrugs out from Tormund’s arm, half-choked, happy. Lets his gaze wander the hall as woodsmoke twists at its rafters. King’s men in one corner, free folk a swarm at the centre. Sansa with a hand on either brother’s shoulder, head bent to listen to a gaggle of clansmen, a lord with a silver fist blazoned on his tunic. Wolves at her feet: a pack of three — white, black, grey.

Bran’s frog-wife finds a seat beside him at the hearth. Moss for eyes, green-bright as the tales on her tongue. She talks to Jon of the south: tourneys, champions, queens. He listens quietly — silk flags, silver hair, a stag, a prince, a laughing knight — but he does not care to understand. His eyes are caught elsewhere.

Girl drifting in the shadows. Tall boots, pleated leather gloves. A stillness hangs on her: heavy water cloaking her limbs. She does not wade, though. She skips, slides — like breakers on a beach. Moon-pale face, empty. Frowns to follow her with his eyes, finds himself thinking he would like to spar with her. Draw a needle-point of effort to colour those blank cheeks with a grimace, a grin.

Small. Would fit under his arm: a little wolf-pup to scrap with the one humming quiet in his beloved’s belly. Narrows his gaze, studies her.

Thinks herself something fierce, mean, fearsome — can tell by the way she holds herself, moves — but he sees the little girl glinting wistful in her wide, dark eyes. He is not afraid of her.

“Harrenhal is a ruin now,” weaves that green-bright voice softly. “What was not melted by dragonfire has gone to rot. It is a place of ghosts and bats and bloody bearpits, starlight filling empty rooms once lit silver by the strings of a harp — by a prince’s mournful tune.”

Jon nods. He does not care for princes. Asks a question about the laughing knight, turns back to find the girl swallowed up by the shadows. Gone.

At Sansa’s feet, the wolves raise their heads as a pack — fire-limned eyes treading the same shadows he stares at, stalks. One by one, they stand, stretch. Tilt their heads as if they are listening for a leaf-rustle amidst the hall’s din.

Ears pricking as they hear it; a graze of ice brushes across Jon’s skin.

He gets to his feet.

*

Outside the moon is full. Its light catches at the castle, turns its walls to stacks of dream-stones: silver, sparkling.

A wolf waits in the bailey. Two — shimmering like the stones heaped high around them, shoulders low as they tread a circle. Half-wild, huge; but Jon is not afraid of them. Ghost is there suddenly. His brothers, too. They scuffle softly, lower their snouts to the snow. The girl steps out from the shadows, puts a gloved hand on one wolf’s head.

“I call her Berry,” she says. “For her eyes. The colour of them.”

Jon squints through the silver wash. “Shape, too.” Twists his fingers together, holds them up to show her. “Like the red fruit we gather in the mountain-meadows when the wind is warm.” Nods his head to the other wolf, smiles. “You call her gold, hmm — or honey?” 

“Nymeria.” His heart beats somewhere behind him. “She is called Nymeria.”

Sansa drifts to his side, chases up the echoes of her voice. There are fire-bruises in her cheeks, a tremble in her lip she nips at with her teeth. Shadows stir; there is a shiver in how the girl speaks now.

“They tell me you don’t care for gowns anymore.”

Lifts her chin. “Furs suit me well enough.”

“No silks or satins,” says the girl softly. “No hairnets. No jewels.”

“Bearskin. Amber. Iron, steel. It is all I need.”

Wide, dark eyes: that little girl glowing within them. “You are changed, Sansa.”

“As are you,” she murmurs. “Sister.”

Who moves first — wolves or women — Jon cannot say. Too swift to see.

It is a tangle more than a pack, this tussle of honey eyes and hard-gripped hands and howls echoing soft against the dream-stones that shimmer in the silver light.

Looks up to the ink-splash sky, smiles as they spin. Round and round: a swirl of furs and tall boots and pleated leather gloves holding tight. Watches quietly, then he joins their fragile laughter.

His heart feels half-made of honey. Mm — full as the moon.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final Stark(lings) reunion is done and I am an emotional mess. BERRY. _Sisterhood_. Bye-bye Littlefinger 👋 HELLO BELLY. Really sorry for the little lag in posting this chapter; but I hope all that may’ve made up for it a bit! Maybe! Time for truth next chapter. Life is a little busy at the moment — I’ll try my best to update soon, tho. Bye for now, my loves. ❤️
> 
>  **p.s.** ‘I shall die a lord…’ in reference to the Selmy/LF exchange in _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 57; and ‘Who else would I be?’ from _A Feast for Crows_ Chapter 10 x


	26. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Inside, he is bursting. Full of light. It is a wonder his fingertips do not leave stones glowing after he has touched them.’
> 
> [🌙](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Tv_Qh7BWIU)

Next moon, he wakes to find the curve of her belly in his hand. A little bird-flutter against his palm. Sansa stays sleeping as he tracks the rhythm with his thumb, smiles a word into her hair.

“ _Edoòtì_ ,” he whispers, brook-soft. “Be patient.”

Kicks and twists, then gentles to quiet beneath his palm. Little bird-flutter of a secret: this moment, the bond of blood-beat mirrored in the press of her skin to his own. A secret. Mm. Sansa has said nothing save for showing him the timid knowing in her eyes. Jon stays wordless, too. He will say nothing. Will wait for her — always.

Inside, he is bursting. Full of light. It is a wonder his fingertips do not leave stones glowing after he has touched them.

Sweeps his palm up between her breasts now — up, _up_ — till he is cradling her throat. Rubs a thumb along her jaw, turns her face. Presses a gentle kiss to the corner of her lips. She sighs sleepily, her fingers lifting to skate across his wrist.

“Near dawn,” he rumbles as she opens her mouth to him. “Time for council.”

A mewl, a huff. “No.” Fingers tightening on his wrist. “Hungry.”

“For what?”

“Mm. For yo— _Jon_.”

That little gasp. It is honey to him, nectar. Throw him to the wilds, the white winds — he would survive all of it just to hear that little gasp again.

Her thighs part, he slides between them. Curves his arm around her shoulders, draws her — sun-warm, sticky — against his body. Holds her steady as he moves inside her: slow, deep. Back arching away from his belly for a heartbeat, then she slots into the shape of him again. Quickens the roll of her hips; he follows her rhythm. 

Fingers in his hair, tugging him round to steal her moans with a kiss. Roughs a nipple with his thumb — she shatters in his arms, greets the rising sun with a song breaking soft from the valley of her open, kiss-bruised lips.

Rolls her tongue dreamily around her mouth as she reaches back to lay a hand on his hipbone. Digs her fingertips in, flutters round him till he falls.

“Hmm,” she murmurs as he pants into her neck. “ _Hmm_.”

Lifts his head to catch the laughter sparkling in her eyes: jewel-bright. Mm. Drinks it in like honey — nectar.

*

By dark, she is all his. By day, he learns to share her. Swirl of new names, faces. Jon likes very few of them. None, might be.

There is a blunt-fingered knight he stands to sometimes talk to. Envoy of the king called Stannis. King who sent him to treat with the mermen, believed him dead by their wax-stamped letters. A ploy, a plot. Dead Davos sailed to Skagos instead, found the little wolf-boy. Brought him back to the mermen with an army loyal as they are fierce.

Council is crowded: Skagosi, mountain clans, king’s men rattling even without their tin-suits clamped and buckled to their bodies. Red woman drifting — smoke and blood. Jon would spit the scent of her into the fire, watch it burst and flicker. Wraps the seat next to him in heat. He puts his hand on the chair, stops her pulling it back.

“Not here.”

Her voice is red-rich as her robes. “Where else would you want me?”

“Away.” Jerks his chin at the other side of the table. “That is where I want you.”

“Away?”

Flares a look at her: quick, hard. “From me.”

“My lady,” says Stannis sharply. “You have the seat at my side — come.”

Red woman moves off. They sit — all of them — in a clatter of leather, plate, mail shifting against furs and pelts and cloaks made from fine-woven wool. Dead Davos clears his throat, rumbles to the room. News from a pirate: a storm, a silver-haired princess, a fleet of ships dashed on the rocks, lost to the narrow sea.

“The last dragon gone.” Stannis sucks his teeth once Davos has sat down again. “Her pets might’ve been useful in the fight to come.”

Grey clansman coughs. “Fickle things, dragons.” His voice is ancient as his knotted beard. “Like the wind. Burn one tree. Blink — and they are burning another and another till there is no forest left.” Settles into his shoulders. “Better off without them.”

“Hmm,” says Jon quietly. “We can make our own dragonfire.”

Red woman’s eyes on him now: sharpened with interest. Most the council, too. Staring at him till he realises he has spoken. Sansa puts a hand on his wrist, leaves his skin cool as her soft question.

“How?”

“Wall is sealed,” he rumbles at last. “Barrels on top of it. Arrows. Pitch. Flame — loose.” He flutters his fingers at the window, the spot of rust-coloured leaves showing distant through it. “Weirwood arrows would have greater range. Burn slower, too.”

Mance taps the tabletop. “Throw a few hundred barrels down to break on the snow first. Light it up. Be a field of fire to rival any the three-headed dragon ever made.” 

“Fire kills them?”

Jon looks at the stone-faced king. “Hmm. Some.”

“Others?”

Shiver on his nape. Takes the black-bladed dagger from his belt. “Dragonglass.”

“You have crates of it at Castle Black,” says Sansa. “I saw it in a storeroom. Stacked high to the ceiling.” Tilts her head, trails a fingertip along the black blade. “How much exactly?”

King called Stannis works his jaw. “Ledger that recorded the shipments was ruined. Ink-spill made a mess of it.” Dips his chin. “Luckily the steward kept a spare.” Ruffles some papers, reels off some numbers. “Mining it on Dragonstone is hard and heavy work. Days and days of it — but getting it off the island and to the Wall takes weeks, months.”

“Months? No.” The wolf-boy shakes his head, pulls at the black gemstone glinting in his ear. “Skagos, closer. We will trade. Glass for goods.” Puts his palm to the tabletop, shifts a look at the press of council. “It is done.”

Chorus: Skagosi, mountain clans, king’s men, free folk, warrior, queen.

“It is done.”

*

He spoke like a little king in there — but now the wolf-boy is half a boy again, true.

Jon watches him bandy with his brothers in the bailey, turn them onto their backs easy as if they were a pack of puppies.

Frowns, broods as is his way.

Strange how he thinks of him as almost-kin: this little tangle of ruddy hair and flailing limbs. Wild, ragged, wanting taming. Mance shudders at his side. Sees Jon the Boy in him too much, he says. Like pressing an age-old bruise. Jon smiles at that.

“You bruise easy these days, _ehtsèe_.”

Mance boxes his ears half-heartedly, still makes his head ring. Makes no matter — southron politics sets shields clattering behind his eyes anyway. Laughs, gets his shoulder squeezed. Turns away to seek some quiet.

Sun is low in the sky as he walks the worn pathways of Winterfell.

He cannot help but to touch this castle. All its knots and stones seem to call to him. The crypts, too — the cold belly of them: a chamber, a cradle.

Sansa took him to see the statues in their depths half a moon ago. Dark, earthy. Shadowy lines softened by the stone-age of years. A woman there amongst all the lords and kings. A woman whose face he ached to touch a fingertip to, trace with it the bridge of her fine-wrought nose.

Blank eyes: smooth, old — yet they shone like a mirror to him.

Thinks of them now, of her. He wants to brush away the dusty feathers from her feet, lay flowers in her lap. Not pretty sprigs of spring or summer. Rose-petals, might be — pale blue, delicate as the first frost of winter.

Pushes the thought away even as he wonders at it. Falls onto a new path — up, _away_ — one set of stone steps, then another. Feels his heart pull with something other than the effort of his climbing.

Stares out to the wilds, the white-tipped wolfswood till his blood stops howling — hums slow and quiet in the valleys of his veins.

Frowns, broods as is his way till his skin turns night-cool.

*

Sansa finds him on the battlements as the stars begin to show: white-bold against the endless sky. Puts her hand on his nape. He leans back into it.

“Bridge of Skulls must be broken,” he rumbles. “Else they’ll cross it. Breach the Wall there.”

Her voice is a low, soothing hum. “Denys Mallister has sent for wildfire already.”

“Good.”

“Is that what you are thinking of — bridges, skulls?”

Lips at his ear, warm breath on night-cool skin. He closes his eyes. “No.”

“Tell me,” she murmurs. “Please, love.”

Grumbles a bit. “The woman in the dark,” he says eventually. “How did she die?”

“A bed of blood — that is all was ever said.”

“Hmm.”

Fingertips ease up from his nape, slip into his hair. He turns at her gentle grip, leans his brow to her own. Lets her read the truth in his eyes. Closes them as she kisses him.

“Lost boy in the south, hmm?”

He nods: once, twice. “The wild calls me. But these walls… they call me, too.”

“What do they say?”

“Things I do not understand,” he rumbles against her lips. “Things that sing to my blood. Make my bones ache.”

Her fingers on his chin: cool, quiet. “And your heart — what does that say?”

“My heart is your own,” he whispers. “It beats the same.”

Feathering his jaw now. “Our hearts belong together.” Little thumb-rasp smoothing the edges of his lips. “They belong _here_ , too.”

“I do not understand.” Blinks open his eyes, drinks her own. “I — ”

“Quiet now,” she murmurs. “Time for truth.”

Folds his hand between her palms, bids him follow her. He does — wordlessly.

Her hair is fire kissed by starlight: like flames twisted with ice.

Touches a strand of it as he counts each step — his, hers — exhales as his heartbeat slows to match their rhythm. 

*

Wolves in the godswood: five of them.

Beneath the heart tree, the boy-god sits. He looks almost a part of it; the blood-red leaves collecting on his shoulders like a cloak. From the shadows at his side, Arya steps out. A smooth pebble in her hand that she skims — an arc of black, white — across the still surface of the glassy pool.

Rickon watches, holds out his palm. Arya smiles as she puts another pebble into its span: a needle-point of colour warming her blank cheeks. Like a rose, it blooms till she looks half a girl again, skimming stones with her brother.

“Here,” she says. “You take one, too.”

Jon dips the river-smooth stone from her fingertips.

The glassy pool is soon lead-lined with skipping trails, cross-clouds of laughter hanging light above it. Whistles like wolfsong, that soft chorus. Jon turns to seek out Sansa, sees her staring up at the bone-white branches of the heart tree. The boy-god is watching her, too. She touches her hand to the smooth weirwood now, closes her eyes.

“I saw a glimpse of your wedding,” says the boy in those god-strung tones. “Weirwoods looking down at you. Nine there were. A ring — a grove.”

Sansa opens her eyes. “Wedding?”

“There were no cloaks. No crystals. You both were bound together even so.” A soft rattle of breath; a little of the god slips away. “Then, now — always. It beats inside you like a little heart.”

Her fingers drift from the tree. “What does?”

“The love you carry — the life.”

“Life?”

Asks it — but her palm is on her belly: the smooth moon-dip of it pressing out against the dark air. Jon aches to put his palm there, too. Feel the little bird-flutter, soothe it with the heat of his skin. He lets the pebble drop from his fingertips, slip soft into the mirror of the deep black pool.

Glances up: ice-lake gaze locked on him. God and man stare at each other now. His heart skitters in his chest.

“Look,” says the boy-god softly. “Listen. You will see.”

Jon looks now, listens.

Silvery skeins of that green-bright tale, a ripple of that stone-eyed mirror in the polished words the boy-god speaks.

He sees ghosts and griefs. He sees a twisted crown, a tower cracked by the proud heat of a southern sun. A bed of blood — a rose-petal drifting from its edge, pale as the first frost of winter. Turning black, dead. Riverwater, rubies carried by the rush of it — so real he could bend to pick one out of the boy-god’s mouth, feel it glimmer across his hand.

It is not the rubies he wants to reach for, though. It is the rose-petal — twisted, tarred with blood — he wants to turn it with his thumbs, cup it gently in his palm. Feel it flutter there in the air that leaks between his fingers, like wingbeat stirring against the glass of a window in a strange, stone room.

“He stole her, hmm?” Apple-seed words, how he spits them now. “He should not have stolen her.”

“She was lost,” says the boy-god. “She thought she’d been found.”

The rose-petal fades from his fingers. “Doom, that is all she found.” A tremble in his jaw; he works his teeth to quiet it. “Death.”

“Life, too.”

Jon turns at Sansa’s voice. Would put his face to her throat, hide — but her fingertips find his jawbone. Holds him steady, soft. He looks at her, sees the truth in her eyes glowing like sunlight on a slow-moving brook, like the sheen of honey-lit water. Like nectar — he drinks it.

“Life,” she says again. “A son — a song.”

Tide-lines in his brow now. “Of what?”

“Ice,” says Bran, the god gone from his tone. “Fire.”

Rickon touches a hand to the flanks of the wolves: white, black, grey. “ _Nǫdi_ — like them.” Nods at Jon. “Like me.”

“You are kin.” Arya’s voice somewhere: a rose in it, blooming. “Blood. Part of our pack.”

Sansa’s fingertips on his face — soft, still — he closes his eyes, lets her run the furrow from his brow with her thumbs.

“It is you,” she says quietly. “A wolf.” Dips her hand to catch his chin, tilts his face till he is blinking back at her. “You see?”

He nods: once, twice. “I see.”

“Quiet now,” she rumbles. “You see?” They stare at each other; there is a light in her eyes to rival the dawn. Makes the breath tangle in his throat. Her hand drifts to find his own, lifts it to lay his palm against her belly. “Love, do you see?”

“I see,” he says softly. “Sansa, I _see_.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honeys . . . we have two chapters left. _Two_. Is it right strange and over-the-top that I keep having to stop writing said chapters because I get too emotional about this whole little snow-dipped trip ending? Even if it is strange and over-the-top, I can’t stop! I can’t help it! Everything is going to be very sweet & s o f t from here on out; I feel like we all deserve it. On that note, I think it is important to say now that the war for the dawn will not be written in real-time. I do not have the appetite to write a(nother!) climactic battle sequence — and I don’t think a full-blown parable of it is needed for the contexts of this story BUT it will be dipped into in the stories and fireside tales that will be told in the final chapter/epilogue. Right! Now that I trust you’re all confused, I am off! I hope you liked this chapter — and that you’re all well, lovelies. ❤️
> 
> (Quick Q&A. _You wrote Dany out just like that?_ Yes, yes, I did. No hard feelings — I just don’t need any more drama (esp. of the dragon kind) in this particular au world thank you please. _But how did Mance end up with Jon Snow as his ward?_ Nothing too big or dramatic or dragged-out! We’ll dip into it a bit next chapter, tho.)
> 
> & **translations** : _edoòtì_ [blood/family/belonging to me] _ehtsèe_ [grandfather/old man . . . yes Jon was being cheeky hence the ear-boxing, naughty boi] x


	27. Little Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > ‘Snow falls softly all around as they lean together, watch life flood the dream-stones of Winterfell with laughter — light.’
> 
> still with me, honeys? I promise it is _almost_ time to go home . . . 😌

Candlelight dances — a bloom of it cradled in his fingers. Throws shadow-shapes flickering across the cold, stone walls. Jon steadies his hand; walks careful, quiet steps.

Ahead, Sansa puts the candlestick she carries onto a ledge. Beckons at him to do the same, puts a hand on his elbow as he does it. Their flames surge and swell together, cast a faint dawn in this dark world beneath the earth. They stand quietly, shoulders touching.

“She looks strong,” he says at last. “Like a warrior.”

“Like you.” Sansa takes his hand. “This part of you is her. Feel it.”

His fingers flutter — weightless, warm against the cool stone of that fine-wrought nose. He traces a fingertip the bridge of it. “She was my mother.”

“Your own.”

“ _Amà_ ,” he rumbles. “ _Amàcho_ , too.”

Sansa smiles at that, fingers tightening on his elbow as he touches his fingertip to her warm belly — back to that cool, fine-wrought nose again. Little thread between them. Might be he can see it glimmer: red-gold as the candleflame, as the leaves on the heart tree in the godswood above the earth.

“I’ll get big,” she says now, dreamlike. “Fat.”

That bursting light inside him: it soars, explodes. “Fat as that wolf you spoil.”

“Fat, spoiled wolf is no good to anyone.”

“Anyone. Hmm.” Laughter in his throat — or tears: happy, thick. “But to me?”

Leans into the hand he puts to her cheek. “I am good to you?”

“You are good,” he murmurs. “And mine.” Thumb tips her chin, then slips down her throat. Between her breasts, below her ribs. “Little heart beating in your belly… she is mine, too.”

Fingers twine, twist together. Press to that smooth moon-dip of their making. The candles flicker quietly, breathe life into the stone gaze fixed by a thread — red-gold, glimmering — to the bloom of warmth Jon cradles in his hand.

*

Later — a moon, more — he feels her fingers at his elbow after council, dragging him back into his chair. Looks at her, smiles; her lips twitch to follow the shape of it.

“She?”

He nods: once, twice. “Aye,” he says. “Her eyes will be the blue of mountain-stone. Deep, dark. But her hair will be kissed by fire.” Reaches out, catches a ruby twist. “Like yours.”

“You sound like Bran — prophesying my niece like that.”

Jon looks toward the doorway, laughs as Sansa’s hair slips through his fingers. Arya lets a smile lift her cheeks — small, rosy — for half a heartbeat, then rolls her eyes toward the bailey. Pats the hilt in her belt.

They spar as the walls rumble around them, as men make ready for war. Metal-hiss of dragonglass, smith-hammers ringing like thunder sent by the gods. Barrels stacked high: black blades, wildfire, pitch and flint and fletching. Theon whittling weirwood for his arrows, tarred fingers moving quick and clean. Little smile on his face, bright as the iron-glimmer of his eyes.

Arya turns Jon with the whip-thin sword she hefts like part of her arm. Long, clean line of it — needle-point of colour rising in both her cheeks. He parries easily, lets her land a cut or two on the flat of his forearm. Laughs as she grits her teeth, tells him to hold his form. He fights harder, loses — but there is a grin lighting up her moon-pale face. Feels like victory: sweet, good.

“Pretty pin.” He points to the swirls of black and white furled like petals at her collar. “You will come north one day with us. I will show you the mountain-meadows where the wildflowers grow even in winter.”

Her wide, dark eyes narrow. “What do I care for flowers?”

“Bet you picked them when you were small,” he says. “Purple, green. Pretty as your pin.”

Little tremble in her throat: a memory, might be — swallowed sharp. She smooths a hand across her brow, tucks the dark hair back behind her ear. Flickers a glance at him, then turns her gaze to the snow-shadowed gates.

“I will go south,” she says. “I need to finish my list.”

Tilts his head. “List?”

“I live by it.” Stares at the gates, the sky. “The… words on it.”

“Live by the words you speak,” he rumbles. “Not the words that were spoken.”

She shakes her head, nips her lip. “I cannot forget. The North remembers, after all.”

“Aye,” he says. “That is why you did not go south. You remembered. Came back.” He shrugs, rolls his shoulders. “Stay a while. You will remember more of it. Learn to love it more than your list, might be.”

“Perhaps.” She gives a small smile as she looks at him, lifts an ash-dark brow. “You’ll take me to see the wild if I do — the mountain-meadows?”

Nods: once. “Aye.”

“Why?”

“You are kin — and you will pick flowers again.” He looks at the little girl glinting wistful in her wide, dark eyes. Smiles. “Pretty ones. Purple, green. Might be my _edoòtì_ will pick them with you, hmm?”

“I’ll teach her to pick up a sword first.” Roses in her cheeks lift, bloom — he laughs, too. “Flowers after.” 

*

God falls away from one boy, even as wolf clings to the other. Sometimes they are like strangers — but always they are together.

“Little king,” says Jon. “The way your _dezǫ nǫdi_ speaks.”

Sansa leans to look.

Rickon is a rose-flare in the early sun, pointing with a flint-tipped spear where the new crates should be stacked. Bran in a chair of polished ironwood, furs piled on his lap. Meera there: a hand on his shoulder, resting her tongue from those green-bright tales she weaves at every evenfall till the moon is high and fire burning low.

“Little king,” says Sansa softly. “Little queen, too.”

Jon leans to look.

Doe skipping over the cobblestones cleared of snow. She has a sweeter face than the stone-carved king who is her father. Sweet and shy and good. Wun Wun likes her. Talks to her in rattles — _kneel queen, little queen_ — and simpers when she smiles. Rickon simpers more, though. Brings her glass-beads and fine-worked furs; does not mind to touch the grey blush of her cheek with his fingertips.

“Queen,” rumbles Jon. “Hmm — I see just one.”

They look at each other. “Shireen?”

“You,” he says as she smiles. “Sansa of the House Stark. Queen in the North.”

A beat of quiet: creak of the wind against the banners, rustle of furs — rasp of red-warm hair as she dips onto her toes, rests her brow to his own. He smiles, hums.

“Queen,” he says softly. “That is what you want to be?”

Sinks back onto her soles. “Used to. But now…”

“Now?”

“It is different.”

Tilts his head as the tide-lines in her brow brush his skin. “What is different?”

“Everything.”

Pulls back to look at her, fingers on her shoulders, circling the blooms of them. Her chin is up, the ivory-knife of her jaw like the smooth side of a mountain-top cutting at an endless sky. He runs his thumb along it, touches his brow to her own again.

“Let Winterfell have its king,” he rumbles. “Let the wild have its queen.”

A little sky-dance of light in her eyes. “There is work to do before we can go back.”

“Wild will wait for you.” Puts his thumb to her lower lip. “I will wait, too.”

Her lips part. “Could be years.”

“Could be. Little one will grow up here.”

“Dalla’s babe?”

“Hmm — and the one I put into your belly.”

Nips at his thumb now, teeth flashing in a smile. “Put her there, did you?”

“Aye,” he rumbles. “All me.”

Moves his thumb, dips to get at her mouth. Kisses her as he does when he is moving inside her — slow, deep — shiver on his nape to hear that little gasp rattle up her throat, flood onto his tongue. Her fingers find his face, tips of them touching his earlobes. Pulls back, brushes her nose against his own.

“No queens,” she says now, soft as the snow drifting down around them. “No princes or lords or knights.” Eyes a star-burst of blue — he can hear the howl leaning low in them: a pulse rippling at a winter sky. “You are a wolf. Just like me.”

He puts a thumb to the hollow of her throat. “Might be we are wolves together.”

“Together.” Feels the lift of her voice there, the lines of her bones as his palm flattens out atop her heart. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

“Pretty words.”

Ripple beneath his thumb now. “My father’s words.”

“He was a good man,” says Jon. “This lord who moved the mountains.”

Tears tremble, sparkle like dew-drops on the tips of her lashes. Blinks — and they fall. He puts his lips to her cheek, lifts the salt from her skin. Eddies along her cheekbone, dips down to press a kiss to her lobe.

Her fingertips tighten at his nape, dent the big muscles of his back that lift to fill her palm. Feels her nodding at his neck before he has even said the words. Her smile, too: a salt-print against his skin.

“Wolves,” he whispers into her ear. “That is it, _edzèa_ … that is all.”

Snow falls softly all around as they lean together, watch life flood the dream-stones of Winterfell with laughter — light.

*

Another tale told when the moon is high and fire burning low. It is green-bright as Meera’s mossy eyes glinting in the flickers of flame they sit beside.

Jon leans closer to listen.

It is his favourite: the laughing knight, the shield carved of weirwood left hanging like a ribbon from a tree.

Finds his eyes falling on those colours now: red, white — Ghost glimmering his teeth in a yawn, then tucking his head back into the soft flank he uses for a pillow. Berry’s flank. Frowns at it now. The amber she-wolf is getting fatter by the day — Jon is sure of it.

“Remember him as the little runt you brought back from scouting.” Mance is at his elbow, faint smile on his sharp-hinged cheeks. “Have pups of his own soon enough.”

Jon takes the ale-cup proffered at him. “Time is swift. Like a river in spring.”

“We can but cling to its current, hmm?” Mance sits with a sigh, takes a sip; his cup creaks between his fingers. “You met your mother.”

Nods: once, twice. “A moon ago. Put flowers in her lap.”

“Prince who stole her told her many tales when they were together in that tower,” says Mance. “Played her heart well as he played his harp, if the boy-god tells it true. Songs and legends and prophecies and fables strung like stars till he shone like the moon to her. Amongst it all — a name.” Spreads his hands, taps his thumbs to the cup. “Aemon.”

Jon frowns, considers. “The magic-man?”

“Magic-man, maester.” Dips the cup down, gestures. “Last of the dragons — save for you.”

“I am not a dragon,” rumbles it. “I am a wolf. That is it. That is all.”

A hand on his arm: gentle, fierce. “I raised you, Jon — I know that is what you are.”

“How did it come to be?”

Mance gives a glimmer of a smile. “Time is swift. Like a river in spring. Truth gets muddied up within the flow of it.” He sighs, shakes his head. “A name carried you north on the wings of a promise — else your pelt might’ve hung from the antlers of a stag.” Those sharp brown eyes are softer now. “The world this side of the Wall was not safe for you, lad. What better man to raise you than one who never wanted to step south again?”

“You,” says Jon after a moment. “Why not the magic-man with fire in his blood? Hmm — why not the quiet wolf who made a promise?” Lifts a brow, smiles. “He was full of honour as a mountain is tall. You gave it up for a pretty red cloak.”

They laugh a little now. Drink their ale, lean their shoulders together. Mance sits quietly as Jon blows a breath, feels light scatter between his ribs — ebb, flow.

“I do not care how it came to be,” he says now, softly. “You are my father, true enough. Tormund, too. Greybeard, Alfyn — Joramun in his ancient tomb.” Flutters his fingers. “My blood is the riverwater, my bones the lines of the mountains. The wild is my home.” His lip trembles a little, mirrors the shape of Mance’s smile. “I do not need to know how I came to be a part of it.”

“Jon the Boy,” says Mance. “My own.” Lifts his cup as that smile dances high on his sharp-hinged cheeks. “I _was_ a man of honour once — might surprise you to know it.”

Shakes his head: once, twice. “You are a man of honour still, Mance Rayder.” Touches a thumb to the old man’s brow, smile deepening. “Raised me right. Kept your word. You’ll keep it always — this I know.”

“Always, _gǫzha_.”

Clank their cups, gently. Lean together a little longer.

*

There is work to do: another fight to fletch arrows for, a war to wage and win. But that is day. Now it is dark — and she is all his.

She is laid before him. Bare. Blue. Every bit a queen.

 _His_.

Light: moon-glint, fire — the steel-glitter of her eyes narrowed in a moan. Her fingertips trail from his hair to wander up the long, clean line of her hipbone. Looks down at him as he presses another kiss between her thighs: salt-hot, slippery.

She shudders, sighs his name. Curve of her leg tightening over his shoulder as her fingertips dance higher. Tap a little tune where he likes to keep his palm when they are sleeping. A smile shimmers on her rose-flushed cheeks, even as a huff lifts off her chest.

“Told you I would get fat.”

Jon takes the hand she is resting on her belly, presses a kiss to the palm of it. “I would have you fat forever.” Juts a brow up at her. “Tormund touches it again, I will cut off his hand.”

“He’s excited. They all are.” Laughter in her eyes: jewel-bright. “Even Toregg.”

Nips a growl to her thigh. “Say his name again.” Another as she smiles. “ _Say_ it.”

“Tor— _Jon_. Jon!”

Little word-burst mixed up with curses, laughter as he reaches up to trace a flame-tickle across her ribs. Softens his touch till her shrieks slip back to sighs.

Traces a circle round her navel, marvels at the taut skin of her belly — marbled, moon-pale. Slides his tongue back between her thighs and he is a river: ceaseless, stirring. She is watery, floating on the current of him. Twists, turns on his tide; washes up on the shore with a cry, a soft shout to gods and men.

Fingers in his hair, on his shoulders: nails digging in till he rolls onto his back. She puts a hand to his chest, waits for him to slot a grip and lift her. Finds her balance, shimmies back — eyes closed, lip caught between her teeth — rocks herself full of him.

A moan flutters in his throat.

Presses his thumbs into the grooves of her hipbones, eases down along the muscles of her thighs. Dregs the ache from the depths of them. She sighs, sits lower — takes him so deep that all he sees is her: a red-gold glimmer as her hair falls over his face, catches at his lips as she kisses him.

Milk, honey, salt — the echo of a dream.

Later, her tone is soft as the glide of his hand against the swell of her skin. He hears a little word-sigh hitch in her throat. Puts his mouth to one hipbone, then the other. Lays his cheek to the dip between them. Waits for her.

“I did not think after everything… I thought my belly would stay empty, Jon.” Shiver of breath as she trembles beneath his weight, his warmth. “I thought nothing good would ever grow there.”

His lips ghost the hard, round curve now. “It is growing. Look at it.” Presses a kiss to the tip of a long, blueish mark. “Like the hill Mance found me on.” Ducks the swipe she aims at his head, smile warm against her skin. “We talk together when you are sleeping.”

“You talk?”

“Hmm.” Looks up over the moon-dip of their making. “She likes to hear her pa. I tell her the stories I once told you.”

Dawn-tides come a little early: the light in her eyes, her smile. “That is why I dream of giants. Wolves.”

“My _edoòtì_ likes the wolves best,” he rumbles. “No surprise. She is a little pup herself.”

“Our pup,” whispers Sansa. “Our pack.”

“Ours, _edzèa_ — forever.” 

He looks at her. She looks at him.

Work to do, true enough. He sees the shadows of its weight darken the glimmer of her eyes. Little flame of fear. Moves to put it out. Always will.

“I will fight,” he rumbles now. “I will beat the darkness and bring the dawn — and then I will come back to you.” Her gaze is fixed on him: sea-ice bobbing on the water. “I will put my lips to your skin — here.” A kiss to her belly. “Here.” To her heart, trailing up to burrow at her throat, her mouth. “ _Here_ … and it will be good.”

Her fingers find his chin, cradle it as he kisses her. “All of it?”

“All of it, _edzèa_.” Does not take his lips away as he finds the palm she presses below her ribs, warms it with his own. “All of it, _edoòtì_.” Looks at her: slow, steady — soft as the breath they share. “I swear it.” Kiss that lands light as a snowflake; tastes of ice and winter and the wild — something warmer, too. “With all I am, I swear it.”

Prayers and promises thickening the air now as the tapestries of green-bright stories woven between them when the moon is high and fire burning low. Prayers and promises. He will keep each and every one, will stay at her side till the gods take the breath from his lungs.

This he knows.

It is his fate.

Mm — all that matters.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 28 will be a mixed-POV epilogue set a few years in the future. I’ll keep this end-note short as the final(!) one is sure to be a rambly mess, but know that I cried real tears writing this chapter lol and had to stop approx. 86 times when the  
>  ** _e m o t i o n_** got too much. I hope you felt maybe a glimmer of something when you were reading it, too! I need to go now and weep softly. Goodbye, my loves. ❤️
> 
>  **translations** : _amà_ [mother/mama] _amàcho_ [grandmother] _gǫzha_ [son] also — Arya picking purple and green flowers for Ned is from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 15; & the Shireen and Wun Wun bit is a reference to _A Dance with Dragons_ Chapter 44 and _yes_ she deserved this sweet, happy ending with wolf-boy safe at Winterfell and far away from flaming stag-hearts fight me x


	28. Found

Come — sit. Get warm.

It is a fireside story: the defeat of the dark, the dawn that came after it.

So — stay a while. Feel the day begin to slip away, the dusk begin to hum.

Feel it? Good. Hmm. Quiet now. Time to listen, look — _see_.

* * *

He’s out scouting when he sees them: footprints in the snow.

Set of them — one, two. Heavy press of winter boots. Beside them, something dainty. Light. Barest trace of a wraith passing beneath the shadows of the night. Wolf at his heels, he follows their tread. Finds them at the river-bend.

*

She cuts the knot from the line with the little flint-knife she keeps in her belt. Puts it to the snow as she stitches the sinew back together with her fingertips. Weaves it neatly: in, out — over, under. Reaches for her knife to cut the tie off; but her fingers come up empty.

Looks down. Finds a little face looking up at her, fire-blush brow quirked in question.

“Somebody made it for me,” she says in answer. “A long time ago.”

Little head tilted to one side. “Who made it?”

“A scout.”

Tilted to the other side now. “Why did the scout make you a knife?”

“Because he saw things I did not see.”

“What things?”

Runs a hand through the fire-streak strands of that beloved, little head. “Ghosts. Memories. Things that haunted my dreams.” Skate of a sigh between her teeth to relive it, even now. “Made me shriek like Orell’s eagle — till the scout made me this knife.”

“What did the knife do?”

Considers it. Gazes down into eyes like her own. Blue. Deep blue: an ice-lake, mountain-stone shimmering in pale sunlight — the bite of the North, the wolf, the wild. Beautiful eyes. Her daughter’s eyes.

“Kept me safe,” she says now, softly. “From men and memories, both.” Leans close, brushes their noses together, smiles as that shrill giggle lights up the air. “That scout… he kept me safe, too.”

“Who was he?” shrieked out between tickles to those little paper-ribs rustling full of breath and life beneath her little furs. “ _Amà_ — who was he?”

Sansa catches her up, brings her flush to her chest. Points to the hilltop overlooking the river. “He’s right there beside that wolf.”

*

“Pa!”

Tormund teases sometimes, says she must’ve got her brass-bell lungs from him. The way her little voice shakes the snow from the tree-tops, makes the eagle pitch a startled circle into the belly of the sky. Jon smiles, lets Tormund have his teasing — his beloved is all his own.

“Pa,” she shouts again. “You wait. Hmm? _Wait_.”

Right there at the river-bend, running up through tracks left beneath the early sun: his heart. What else can he do but obey it? Puts his thumb into his belt, plants his feet — rolls his eyes as the wolf slices from his side, lows till the others cut out from the trees.

A pack of them. Too many to count. Half a hundred shades: grey, white, black, amber.

Berry is fat again; the tent rings at night with all the names Sansa plays at for the pups. Jon grumbles at that, even as he finds himself saving strips of rabbit for their supper. He shifts on his feet now, leans to look.

“ _Pa_.”

“Elska,” he rumbles as she howls. “I am waiting.”

Little brass-bell lungs, true enough — but his beloved moves quiet as a wolf, too. Shoulders low, feet light. Hair a fire-flow down her back, knotted up with flowers: purple, green.

Sweet scent of them burrows into his throat and she into his arms.

Light of the moon in her blue eyes as she beams at him. Touches his thumb to her brow, pulls a face that makes her laugh. Glances over her shoulder, smiling.

Another moon-dip on the bank beside the river; Sansa resting a hand gently on it — she is smiling, too.

*

Feels her smile shimmer like honey-lit water across her cheeks. Shades her eyes, narrows a look up at him as he looms over her. Elska on his shoulder, wolves all around his heels. Scatter like snowflakes together as he sets their daughter down — swirl of black and grey and white and amber lighting the air with laughter, wolfsong.

Watches them go, nips her lip to hide the stutter-sigh she makes as he squats in the patch of snow before her. Elbows on his thighs, fingers stirring the air between them like oaks in the wind. Heat of him.

Looks at him, lip rolling free of her teeth.

There are creases at the corners of his eyes that were not there before. New scars nestled up close to the old. Years sit on him — on her, too. But his body is still beaten metal, and she is still hungry for it. More so. Glimmer in his eyes tells her the same.

She puts her hand below her ribs now. “Might be you’ll have to make me another knife.”

“Hmm,” he rumbles. “Two, I think.”

“Two?”

“For you,” he says. “For Elska’s brother.”

Leans back on her palms, lets her spine arch, ribs jut forward. “Brother, hmm?”

“A boy.” He meets the bow of her body with his hand. “Right here in your belly.”

Rocks a little closer, lets her voice drop to a whisper. “Will we call him Toregg?”

“Sansa…”

He growls it, grumbles some stone-rattle curse. Sansa laughs, shrieks as he bears her back gently onto the bank. Brackets her in with his body. Lips at her throat; she feels the shape of them — a smile, salt-hot against her skin.

Puts her hand on his head, twines her fingers into his hair. Closes her eyes as he kisses her: slow, deep. Heat of him. It is safe and good, and she is hungry for it. Always. Nips at his lip, smiles as he gives that rib-deep rumble that sets her throat alight.

“ _Edzèa_.”

Metal-hiss breath now and that word, that name — it is in her bones, her blood. The one he breathed back into her alongside everything else: life, love. Laughter and soft-sung howls making ripples across the air like a stone-skimmed pool. Her fingers tighten, glint with dragonglass rings. Breath heavy in the hollow of her throat.

Then — a shout from beyond the river-bend: indignant, echoey.

“Pa!”

Kisses pulled free. They smile.

He looks at her. She looks at him.

Rolled up onto his knees, then his feet. Lowers his hand to her. She takes it. Hauled up onto her tiptoes like she is a feather spun between his fingers, coppery in the sunlight. Set off to follow the echoes wrung from those brass-bell lungs, together. 

*

A stream cutting silver through the hills. The way she steps in its swell — catches at Elska’s little shoulder, points as her boots cut to quiet.

“Look,” he says. “Like _Amà_. Your steps are shouting. Hers are not.” 

His daughter shifts uncertainly. Chews her lip, points at the trees herself. Itching to wade quicker, cut a course swift enough to catch up with her mother. Scare the fish away — can’t have that. His beloved is young; she will learn. Still, she squints up at him, scowls impatiently as she shifts the little ashwood bow slung across her shoulder.

“She is faster.”

“Hmm,” he rumbles. “One day you will catch her.”

“ _Hmm_.”

Makes him smile, that. Always will.

*

Find the others at the cave. Sansa puts a hand on Jon’s arm. Together they stand a little way back, sway and smile as Elska runs forward with her catch. Hefts it high; little spray of rabbit’s blood shaking out to feed the fingerprint figures on the damp stone wall.

“My bow,” she shouts. “It worked, _ehtsèe_ — it worked!”

Tormund claps a hand to his forehead, tears shining in his eyes with the laughter on his cheeks. Val kisses her brow, gives her a bone-cup of broth. Dalla’s son clamours for one, too. Mance dandling a tune on his lyre, strings silvering up the darkening air. A smile on his sharp-hinged cheeks.

Mess of sounds — crackle of firewood, shift of furs, laughter, singing — a giant’s gentle stone-rattle somewhere in the inky night. Broth sent flying, little flare of flame running out to find her friend. Jon gives a grumble; Sansa only smiles, presses a kiss to his neck.

*

Next day, they are together again. Elska shrieking eagle-calls of glee as Wun Wun plods up into the hills. Precious cargo — he carries her on his shoulders careful as he would his pebbles, his smooth-shone rocks and trinkets.

“She must walk the way,” rumbles Jon. “One day.”

That smile on Sansa’s cheeks, he thinks that gods and men and years will never dim it. Could never dim it. How could they? It is the light inside of her: bursting, bright.

“One day,” she says now, dreamlike. “She will. She _can_ — but she likes Wun Wun to be happy.”

“He is happy.” Jon puts his thumb to a smile-crease, smooths her skin till she ducks into his touch. “Are you?”

Nods at him; but he catches up her chin, rests his brow to her own. Drinks in the truth she can never hide from him. Would never hide. One and the same. Always.

“One day,” he says. “When she is ready — she will come.” Juts a brow, smiles to see the one on her own lips grow. “Got flowers to pick, after all.”

*

Not a day, or two or twelve. Scatter of them slip across the sky till the drawing up of a distant night: tree-shadows, a silver moon.

Hairs on the back of her neck stand up — one by one — and the blood beats beneath her skin like a hand to a knee, a drum. A graze of ice prickling across her collarbone. Something in the shadows, stirring.

Babe quiet in her belly, beloved knotted all around: black hair at her throat, fire-streak strands a crown between her breasts. Shifts them softly, crooks onto her elbow. Blinks out at the night.

Sansa sees the wolf first. Eyes like gold, honey.

Her heart, skipping: a doe, a hare through mountain-grasses stained silver in the light.

Then — her sister.

Her heart, full.

At last.

*

Pick up swords, flowers. Arya swaying off, little fire-haired figure at her side tall as her hip. Sticks for swords: whittled well as any of Theon’s arrows made and sent from Winterfell. Letter from him, too. Whole wedge of them. Grey wax, black.

“One for you.”

Jon squints at the letter Sansa hands him, the neat little scrawl. Aemon. The magic-man, ancient, always asking for new cuttings, different flowers, a scrap of bark from the tree he’d like to study this moon. Bit of fire in the blood they share. His almost-kin. Rolls his eyes, wonders at which woods he will track to find that tree, those petals. Pockets the letter.

“The wheat has done well this year,” she is saying. “Bran has drawn up plans to make the glass gardens even bigger.”

Summer snows, summer skies — but the wheat can grow even in winter now, panes to keep it warm and tall. An independent North. Sansa’s dream — so it is his own dream, too. Coming true: trade from the whitewashed port, wind-whipped Skagos, the wild. No need for the southron caravans rumbling up that road called king. No need of the south at all.

Thinks on it. Broods as is his way. Smile on his face cracked suddenly — gods high above the clouds are blinded by its glimmer, might be.

“It’s good,” he says. “Hmm?”

“It’s good, Jon.”

Folds up the letter from her brothers, offers up her smile. Radiant: a fine, rare jewel. Takes it, presses his own to it till that rosebud opens up — blooms for him.

*

Birthing pains come on: steady at first, a trickle into a stream. Then a torrent. Clenching, crashing.

Dalla is there in a breath, a beat.

“ _Åekô_ ,” slipped into her ear. Strong hands shoring up her burning skin. “ _Åekô_ , I am here… I am here with you.”

Her sister, too. Arya. Little girl in her wide, dark eyes — fear, a glint of it. But she firms her lip, gathers up water, reeds, the fire-warmed pelts and furs stripped and cleaned. Her sister. Her brave, brave sister. Her sides are split by pain; somehow her heart is full. Overflowing.

Cool hand on her brow. Quiet words: soothing, soft.

Sansa thinks of Elska, Rickon, Bran… Robb. Eyes of sapphire cut in shades of a mother’s lullaby. Starts to hum it even as she pants. Grits her teeth, the tune falters — is picked up by Arya, woven on as if she heard it only yesterday.

Their mother’s hymn. A prayer — a promise that everything will be alright.

“It will be,” whispers Arya, humming, singing. “It will be, Sansa.”

Haze of ache all across her body. Like the battle-sting of long ago; but her sister’s hand is there — on her brow, her wrist, her shoulder — and it is alright.

It is.

Always will be.

*

Whisper of woodsmoke. The fire glows, scatters sparks up. Higher, higher to mix with the smoke-feathers that twist and turn. Drift up as the moon climbs.

Mance plays his lyre, then tells a story silver as its strings. Of great rivers, rafts of driftwood set upon their flow. Skies and slopes and stones. Flowers picked in hidden glens; bread halved, an apple spun. It is the tale of a girl who was lost, then found. Who was stolen, sold — who set herself free.

Old man tells it well. Elska on his knee, his own son on the other. Dandled up and down, mock of a horse’s motion. Creaking bones, age-old bruises come alive again. Laughter on the spark-shot air. Tormund somewhere, snoring. Val slotted up beside him, fire-thatched arm slung across her hip. Jon huffs a laugh through his nose, turns away.

Hearts: the beats that shape their rhythms — old, new — drifting like blossom on the air.

A babe at Sansa’s breast. Flush of freckles across her collarbone, above her nipple. That little mouth, a rosebud. Little, fat cheeks; the smile that lights them up, bright as the stars already. Little nails — like slips of pearl all smoothed, shining, tucked tight round Jon’s finger. Looks down at him: this bundle of suck and pull, fat cheeks, inky lashes swept down on them. His son — his _son_.

Dips his head now, bumps his lips across those perfect little knuckles: god-wrought, gentle.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “ _Notāma é-hésta_ … and here you are. My son.”

“Your nose,” says Sansa. Touches it with a fingertip. “All you.”

“My hair, too.”

Her fingertip leaves that fine-wrought nose, twines into the bit of braid slipped past Jon’s ear. Draws him closer, closer till their brows touch. Fingers on his lobe, skittering like a water-ripple into the ink of his hair. Twines a dragonglass ring around her thumb.

“Like the sky at night,” she murmurs. “All the stars hidden in its depths — but I see them. Always shining.”

Rasps the tip of his nose against her own. “See them, do you?”

“Yes,” she says softly. “I see, Jon.”

“I see you, too.”

Looks at her now. Drinks her in like honey — nectar. Lost girl in the snow: found, free. Shield-maiden, warrior-queen of old. Kin with the wild, friend of giants — a wolf, a winter storm.

The little heart that beats inside his own.

Kisses her, feels the truth of it all tremble on his tongue. Something else, too.

“He is not a Toregg.”

A laugh: soft as the breath of their sleeping babe. “No,” she whispers. “He is someone else.”

“I know who he will be.”

“Two years till we tell it.”

“Hmm,” he says. Nods: once, twice. “Till then, he is _rǫlfr_. Glorious young wolf.”

Dew-drops on her lashes. Catches them with his lips. Her smile, tender. “And ours.”

“Ours, _edzèa_ — forever.”

Young wolf sleeps, drunk on milk. The others tip back their heads, fill the night with glorious song.

*

Dawn breaks gently; sunlight spills on a wolf pack still softly sleeping. All curled up together. Berry with her head in Sansa’s lap. Getting fat again. Ghost smug in the ashes of the cookfire, yawning as his pups play all around him. Jon — babe on his chest, Elska burrowed into the crook of his arm.

Like something hung in amber, the way Sansa wakes. Slowly. Blinks up at the sky, savours the shade of it. Lets her arms stretch up, her fingers reach toward it — this sweep of blue-tipped air, thick as water, twice as free. Hers to breathe and hold and live within. Her kingdom, her castle — this place without walls.

A stirring at her side. Looks down. Finds a little face looking up at her, fire-blush brow quirked in question.

“Rickon has it now,” she says in answer. “He will keep it safe.”

Little head tilted to the side. “Until you wear it again?”

“Only kings and queens wear crowns, my love.”

Tilted to the other side now. “You are not a queen anymore?”

“She is queen of many things, _edoòtì_.” A rumble: sleepy, slow. “Crown or no.”

“Your father’s heart, for one.”

“Off with you, Tormund Tall-talker.”

Elska scrabbles up as her brass-bell laugh joins the clang of Tormund snorting. Sansa lifts onto an elbow, smiles to watch her daughter put her little hands on Jon’s ashy beard. Throw a look back to her mother: glee on her face bright as sunlight on a river.

“Look at Pa!” she shrieks. “ _Amà_ , look at him! He’s got flowers in his cheeks.”

Arya somewhere: her voice skipping out like a river-smooth pebble. “Pretty little roses — the colour of them.”

“Off with you,” rumbles Jon through a creaking yawn. “ _All_ of you.”

Sansa laughs, looks around. At all of it. Kingdom, castle — and there with their babe sleeping sound on his chest: her ash-flecked king.

*

The children gather round Mance as the camp is packed up. Shaggy garron loaded with packs and pelts and pots — Wun Wun shouldering some of it, too. Old man is playing at stories again, swooping shapes with flattened palms.

“Legends said a dragon would defeat the Others,” he says in a whispery voice: wind through the trees. “But the dawn was won without them.”

Dalla’s son squinting at his father above his sharp-hinged cheeks. “How did they win without one?”

“Magic, some say.” Flattened palms feathering to fluttering fingertips. “There was a red woman who breathed fire, then gave herself to the flames. A horn whose thunder woke the giants, whipped them into a battle-rage.” Fingertips to fists, smashing the tops of his knees as the children gasp. “There were bears and birds and shadowcats stalking. There were wolves. A god, too. Of war, mountains — _thunder_. A god whose battle-cry broke the skies.”

Jon listens, smiles. Their children will not see him like that — war, mountains, thunder — he will be a softer god to them. A strong one, still; but kind, quiet. Let them sit upon his shoulder, watch from up there the world he keeps safe for them. Quietly. A shoulder for her, too — his goddess kissed by fire: moon-pale as her weirwood bow.

Reaches for her now. 

Flex of her body good and warm and strong between his hands. Skin flush with sunlight, taut with her own strength. Leans into his side; the warmth of her spreads into his bones, his blood. He feels it: the glow that burrowed deep between the crooks of his ribs years ago, bloomed across his chest by the slow-moving brook.

Petals for lungs, heart half-made of honey — sweetness of both bandying with the salt-ice breath in his throat. Her lips beneath his ear, fleeting. That glow. Fire in a god’s fist, the way it burns inside him. Let her always stoke it, find shelter within it. Let it burn him up, put roses in his cheeks — pretty as the kiss she gifts him in day, in dreams.

Dalla’s son jabbing at his sleeve now. “How did the god kill them?”

“Glass black as night,” says Jon, stirring awake. “Push it in an Other’s chest and — _crack!_ The Other shatters like thin ice beneath your feet.” Taps the black-bladed dagger in his belt. “Frozen fire, the magic-men call it.”

“ _Maesters_ , Pa.” Elska blinking all-knowing above her bone-cup of broth. “Sam says they are called maesters.”

Jon rolls his eyes, feels the letter burning in his pocket. “Sam the Shadow — even now he follows me.”

“To the mountains?”

Sansa puts her hand to the sweet swell of their daughter’s cheek. “No,” she says softly. “He is too busy with his books to come with us.” Smooths her thumb the high plain of a cheekbone. “We’ll bring him something back, hmm? Red fruit. A flower or two for him to study with the maester.”

“Hmm.” Elska nods: once, twice — happily. “Is it far?”

Jon gives half a shrug. “Far enough.”

“Where will we sleep?”

“Ask _Amà_ ,” he says. “She will tell you.”

Sansa looks at him. He looks at her.

It beats between them now: this world they share, this world in which they move and talk and spar and sleep and _breathe_ together.

Look at it. How it has grown. Like a memory, a token — a treasure plucked up from the long grasses and stowed safely inside his heart, her own. Something precious as the first seed sown in the soil when the wind is warm. Little water, little light — something that has grown and given life. Found, nursed, nurtured. Always. Forever.

“We’ll find shelter as we go,” she says now, dreamlike. “Furs on the ground. Stars up above. Don’t need much else. You’ll see, my love.”

Holds out her hand; Elska skips to take it. Turn together toward the packed-up camp. Battle braids, a crown of copper — her hair a cloak of fire as the sun crests the tree-tops, makes her glow like a goddess in its light.

Breath tangled in his throat. He watches them, burrows his son closer to his chest. Looks up at the sky, at her, back again — smiles.

 _Half a moon_ , he thinks. _Give us another half, old gods of the forest. Another after that. Half and half again till our days are done_.

Looks down.

Footprints in the snow. Wolf at his heels, he follows their tread — trail of his heart there ahead of him: beats of it drifting like blossom on the air. 

* * *

Warmer now?

No need to leave the fire. Stay a while next to its glow. Just a little while longer. Half and half again — a moment, a moon. Furs on the ground. Stars up above. Don’t need much else.

But this you know, hmm? You have seen it. You have traced this world with a fingertip. It bears your mark now, too. Always. Forever — gladly.

Quiet now, _kìnde_. Time to breathe…

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Kìnde_ — kin — because that is what you feel to me after this journey, my love and respect for you growing all along it. Silent or sonorous, a lurker or a liker, my beautiful poets week-by-week, my heart-scatterers, _all_ of you — thank you. I never thought a story could get into your bones. Your heart, yes. Your soul, if you believe in it. Your mind, your thoughts — but your bones? Mm. It is there, woven round them, breathing warmth to their cool, pale lines. I am putting my pen away for a bit; maybe till the autumn/winter, maybe for a little while longer. So till then, this is it — an end to this tale, for now. But this wild, little clan is everywhere. The sky, the stone. Fingerprint figures — a man, a girl, too many wolves to count — on the cave-wall of my very skull. And who knows? One day we might catch a glimpse of them beyond the pines: a scene placid as the ice-lake a family of wolves sits fishing on… Again — _thank_ you. Thank _you_. ❤️
> 
>  **translations:** _amà_ [mother/mama] _Elska_ [beloved] _ehtsèe_ [grandfather — you just _know_ Tormund is crying happy tears to be called this] _åekô_ [sweet one] _Notāma é-hésta_ [the wind blew from the north — & didn’t it just; I love you all & appreciate you so, so much okay now let me weep xx]


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